Last January, Mara taped a square print of our snowed-in porch above the butter shelf. By April the image had softened at the edges, but it did more work than the folders on my phone: every breakfast began with a place, a date, and a small proof that we were there.
A memory needs a little weight
Instant pictures are wonderfully inefficient. They ask for a pause, a pocket, a blank border where someone writes too large and crooked. That friction is the point; it turns a Tuesday dinner, a chipped mug, or a rain-dark sidewalk into a thing with corners.