Snapshot
I wonder how many photo albums I'm in, candid-captured in the background of a smiling family photo, or a honeymoon snapshot, or peering out of the window of one of the cars as some Japanese tourist snaps crazily at the Big Ben from a doubledecker tour bus. Out of focus, but not out of range. In the photo, but not in the picture, so to speak.
I try to duck out of photographs that aren't mine, but a stray limb is all that's needed to assert myself, to prove that for a split-second my life-space intersected with someone else's. And if photographs are for remembering, then my split-second becomes indefinite, stored unconsciously, by proxy, in their memories.
It doesn't even have to be that complicated. I'm sure I've accidentally walked in front of someone else's camera before, just as the flash scorched my mortification into their holiday negatives. I always wonder how those photos turn out, whether I make my way into their photo albums and lifetime memories under the label "spoilt photos" or "wasted film", or possibly, "stupid girl who walked in front of our camera on the last photo on our last roll of film".