Ophelia took her camera everywhere she went.
On her twenty-first birthday, she received the camera from her mother, a gift for hard work in school. It was a nice camera, high-quality. Not the most expensive money could buy, but more than worth its price.
On her twenty-fifth birthday, she flew to Spain, camera in hand. She took two thousand pictures in ten days, and loved them all.
She took the camera to her job every day, documenting the people and the things she saw. They were confused, but soon accepted her constant clicking.
On her wedding day, Ophelia carried the camera around her neck, lifting it occasionally to snap pictures of the officiant, her partner, the audience.
She brought her camera into the delivery room as her baby was born. The doctors were surprised – this was a new one – but didn’t say anything, let her click away as sweat poured down her face.
Through the years, Ophelia replaced the pieces of her camera bit by bit, eventually buying a whole new body when the old one wore out. She had a meticulous organizational system, more than a million pictures categorized by date, event, people involved. And she continued to click, every day, adding more and more for no one other than herself.