A picture from 1995 is 16 years old now. That’s a decade and a half more than every unborn baby sleeping in a mother’s womb. Images from 1995 don’t look as though they’re as far away as snapshots of girls in 80s’ leotards and muted-matte 70s’ magazine covers. 1995 just looks like a good memory — not too far, not too alien (yet).

Someone who loves you has a picture of you from 1995. It’s probably taken with a mass-produced point-and-shoot film camera, but that doesn’t cheapen the authenticity of the moment. You’re a newlywed, you’re a high school graduate, you’re a toddler and you’re smiling. Or you’re a freshman at university, a twelve year old girl with her best friend at slumber party, a boy whose body has grown before his mind at the prom and you’re not looking at the camera at all.

In 1995, I am barely three years old and giggling into any lens pointed at me. When I blink because of the camera flash and open my eyes again I am eighteen in 2011 without experience to match my record.