Why I Have More Photos of Dead People Than Living Ones

Look, I get it. You think it’s weird.

My photo albums are filled with stern-faced Victorians, Civil War soldiers, and people who’ve been dust for decades.

And I’m obsessed with every single one of them.

Here’s the truth: these aren’t just photos of dead people.

They’re windows into our collective past.

Your past. My past. And they matter more than you realize.

The DNA Test That Changed Everything

Let me tell you about Domenico Bombino. My great-great-grandfather. A man who was nothing but a name in my tree for years.

Then one day, everything changed.

A random DNA alert hit my inbox.

Boom. A Bombino cousin I never knew existed.

This wasn’t just any match. This was the great-grandson of Domenico himself. Living proof that spitting into a tube could connect you with your past.

Here’s where it gets wild.

A few messages back and forth revealed something I never expected: most of our Bombino cousins weren’t in America at all.

They were living in Canada. And get this – a whole bunch were still in Calabria, Italy, right where Domenico came from.

But the real kicker? My cousin had a photo.

Not just any photo. THE photo.

A slightly blurry snapshot of a framed picture hanging in his aunt’s house. But what came through that blur changed everything I thought I knew about my family.

There he was. Domenico Bombino himself. Looking straight out at me through time.

North of 60 years old, dressed like he meant business. Jaunty hat perched on his head. Wide tie perfectly placed. Jacket crisp and neat.

The moment I saw him, something clicked.

That face. Those features. That build.

My wife saw it instantly. “Well now we know where that nose of yours comes from,” she texted back when I sent her the photo.

She was right. There was no denying it. This man who lived his entire life in Italy over a century ago, who never set foot in America, who I never knew existed until a DNA test connected us – this man gave me my nose.

Not just my nose. My stocky build. The shape of my face. Even the way he filled the frame of the photo felt familiar.

And that’s when it hit me.

This is why we become obsessed with old photos. This is why we spend countless hours hunting through attics and archives.

Because sometimes, in a single blurry photo from a Canadian cousin’s aunt’s house, you find more than just an ancestor.

You find yourself.

The Truth About My Obsession

Let’s get real for a moment.

This isn’t just about collecting old photos. This isn’t even about genealogy.

This is about connection. Identity. Belonging.

Every time I look at Domenico’s face, I’m not just seeing my great-great-grandfather. I’m seeing proof that I’m part of something bigger than myself.

Think about that.

Every feature in your face? Someone wore it before you. Every expression you make? Someone made it before you.

We’re all just echoes of those who came before us.

My living room looks like a Victorian funeral parlor.

And I’m not sorry about it.

137 photos. Each one meticulously cataloged. Each one a window into another life.

But they’re more than just photos.

They’re proof that we exist. They’re evidence that we matter. They’re reminders that someday, we’ll be the ancestors.

The Stories These Photos Tell

Every old photo is a message in a bottle.

The way a family arranges themselves in front of the camera. The clothes they chose to wear. The expressions they decided to keep for eternity.

Take that photo of Domenico again.

He didn’t just throw on any outfit that day. He chose that jaunty hat. That wide tie. That crisp jacket. He wanted to be remembered this way.

I’ve seen hundreds of these portraits now. Each one a deliberate choice. Each pose carefully arranged. Each outfit meticulously selected.

These weren’t casual snapshots. These were their legacies. Their messages to us.

And when you stare at enough of them, patterns emerge. Stories unfold. Connections appear.

A father’s proud stance. A mother’s protective hand. A child’s uncertain smile.

These aren’t just poses. They’re echoes of who we are.

The Legacy We’re All Part Of

One hundred years from now, someone might find your photo.

They might notice they have your chin. They might recognize your smile. They might finally understand where their children got their eyes.

And in that moment, you’ll live again.

That’s why I hunt for these photos. That’s why I preserve them. That’s why I stare at dead people’s faces until I see myself looking back.

Because somewhere in these stern expressions and formal poses, in these jaunty hats and Sunday best outfits, in these frozen moments of lives long passed…

We find ourselves.

And that’s worth being obsessed about.

Welcome to the obsession.

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Comments

  1. Thank you for this blog post. My mother was keeper of the photos and keeper of the stories. As an only child, I listened closely to all the stories and lovingly turned the pages of the photo albums with my mother. We did this over and over until I knew the stories, the stories that went with which picture, and who was in the picture. I treasure each story and each photo. Not just because of who they represent, but the time my mother spent with me making sure none of it was lost. Yes, now I am the keeper of the stories and keeper of the photos. I lovingly look at the photos and have most of the stories written down. As I remember another one I write it down. If there is a picture that goes with it, I place it with the story with my word-processing program so none of it will be lost to those who come later.

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