I didn’t expect to find a piece of my childhood waiting for me back home.

When I walked into the kitchen, there it was on the counter. It was a gift from my mom — her old Canon digital camera, handed to me with a smile and a casual “merry early Christmas.” At first glance, it didn’t look like much, but I immediately sensed its potential. The screen and exterior had a few scuff marks, but time had left it surprisingly well-preserved. When I turned it on, it felt like opening a time capsule. The camera hummed to life, its lens whirring softly, like the satisfying sound of collecting a coin in Mario Kart or leveling up at a checkpoint in a video game. The photos on the camera remained sharp and vibrant, untouched by the years.

“It’s not old,” I said, running my fingers over the ridged grip. “It’s vintage.” My mom laughed and agreed. Vintage was better.

The SD card inside only held 32GB, enough for maybe twenty photos. My mom waved off the limitation, promising that an upgrade was just an Amazon order away. But I liked it that way — each shot felt deliberate, purposeful.

We flipped through the photos already on the card, relics from another life. The last five were baby pictures of my brother and me. In three of them, we’re sprawled on a bed, the kind of candid chaos only kids can create. I’m 10, completely knocked out asleep, face turned away from the camera. My brother, aged 8, is wide awake and beaming, his cheeky grin filled with crooked baby teeth. He’s clutching his plush bear — Arthur, named after our grandfather. I’d forgotten all about Arthur, but seeing him again brought back a rush of memories of childlike wonder.

The other two photos are just me, striking a superhero pose in a bright yellow dress, my left fist punching the air like I’m ready to take off. My hair is decorated with multicolored bows, dozens of them, a detail that makes my mom laugh. “You’ve always been like this,” she says, shaking her head. She’s not wrong. Even now, my friends joke about my rather extensive collection of headbands and bows. Some things don’t change.

I’d been secretly longing for a camera like this for years, but the yearning hit hardest during my first semester at college. Everyone else seemed to have one — documenting late-night study sessions, impromptu adventures, every night out. I’d watch them carefully frame their shots, imagining the moments they’d get to keep and treasure forever.

Now, with the Canon in my hands, I finally understood the pull. It wasn’t just about the photos. It was about preserving the fleeting — the kind of moments that slip away if you’re not paying attention.

But there’s a balance. I don’t want to be the person who lives behind the lens, obsessing over angles and lighting while life rushes past. I want the photos to be reminders, sparks that reignite the full memory: the sound of laughter, the smell of the air, the feeling of being there.

I can’t wait to use my camera now that I’m back. I’m already imagining the snapshots I’ll take: snow falling in Old Campus, the glow of Sterling and Harkness Tower at night, the cluttered chaos of our dorm rooms, fun nights out. Moments that feel ordinary but, years from now, will mean everything.

Each click of the shutter feels like a tiny rebellion against time — a way to cheat its relentless forward march. I know the photos will never be perfect. They’ll blur, overexpose or catch someone mid-sneeze. But that’s the point. Life doesn’t wait for perfect lighting. So, take the picture. Frame it badly. Laugh about it later. Just don’t forget to actually live it, too.

SIENA VALDIVIA