Someday, every single one of us will die, some sooner, some later. It is this awareness of death that makes moments captured like this so incredible for our human brains to see. Everything, from the scratches on the photo itself, to the buttons on her dress, to her expression and where she's looking, everything is wildly comprehensible and humanizing.

What is it about even a photo of somebody else's family from far beyond the grave, that feels so deeply personal, despite it being so obviously wildly impersonal?

Is it the knowledge that, someday, I'll be nothing more than this photo of this one particular moment, lost to time?

Being present in our lives is incredibly important, but my intuition is telling me that so it's reflection and imagination, and possibly moreso in some circumstances.

Do you think that, on that day, she had photos or paintings of similarly older relatives that she looked at and wondered about their lives? Do you think she kept any of those pictures or photos from then, that you may have in your possession, even now? What about those that didn't make it? Do you think the memories are entirely lost? Do they even matter?

There's a question I've found myself asking myself a lot lately, and for whatever various reasons, feels more apt than others: "What am I?" I look at my hands, visualize my bones and veins and my still pumping heart, and imagine the synapses in my brain firing away like a fleshy storm engine.

What am I?