As I take my 4,000^th picture of my fellow travelers in Venice, I watch the exasperation melt away from their faces and transform into a smiles that suit their wonder at their surroundings; faces that complement the cold, old, and unforgiving marble bridges and stone streets with their warmth, youth, and vitality.

There are many photos of my youth; Mom captured the moments that make up for the times my brain seems to never have recorded. There is a period of time, however, I wish her finger had been heavier with the shutter-release button. For the first nine months of my life, my family was intact. I had a dad that appeared in photos taken sneakily from behind doorways; tiny moments captured- small moments showing he cared.

Then he was gone.

It is one thing to listen to my mom talk about our one family vacation to the Grand Canyon, the one where Dad sat at the edge of infinity with me and filled my tiny ears with the secrets of the world. Dad took one shot on that trip- a stunning composition of red rock, purple flowers, and green grass. I know it is a picture that he took. But I wish that the moment that was captured on that trip was one filled with people—with him—instead of one filled with the sights. I will never have enough photos of him.

In Venice I conversed with a fellow duo of travelers- “Americano?” they asked. “Si,” we replied with gusto, conversing in fluent English about our travels, fluency that stood in stark contrast to our broken Italian we used moments before for directions. I asked to take their picture; it would have been a wonderful shot with the blue sky finally showing itself and the clouds hoarding the rain like a well-kept secret. “No, no,” they said, “we don’t like being in pictures!”

I replied with a slice of philosophy, philosophy I didn’t realize I followed until I said it; the man wanted to write it down. “But pictures,” I said, “are only worth the people they hold. The sights—the sights remain but the people change and leave. It’s the people you are with that are important. Always the people.”

The people. These travelers, the natives—they are all my people; they have stories and histories and futures which become preserved in film or digital 0’s and 1’s. When that shutter clicks, they are frozen in time; the moment is captured and the moment elongates into infinity.