Recently, I opened an “All Photos” file on my computer where I have over 1000 photos, dating back to 2008. With each click of the next photo, I recalled when and where the photos were taken. I considered each snapshot to be a moment in time, uttering, “Oh, that was when . . .” as I had a good look at the picture. There were photos of my nephew’s birthday parties, and other parties, and other people, and holidays. Some photos were dated back to the sixties and seventies; I had scanned those into the file. There were photos of vacations, of sunrises, of many trees and sherbet skies, of places far away. As I scrolled through the collection, I realized the photos represented 1000 moments, a medley of fast-forwarding time, that clicked one after the other like a kaleidoscope.

Did I really need all these pictures?

There were many photos, too many, perhaps, that I wondered why I had accumulated so many. Admittedly, I snap more than one photo of the same subject, believing the next is sure to be better than its predecessor. Or the light, or movement, or color has changed to make a more interesting image.

We enjoy taking photos, now more than ever. A camera travels with us on our smart phones, available to photograph a moment at any time. We continuously make memories, and we’d like to remember all those special moments, unforgettable experiences and cheerful celebrations with the people who are important to us. A photo keeps moments from escaping us, connects us to the past, and reminds us of people, places, and experiences.

A long-time friend from a small market town near Shrewsbury, U.K. had visited us one summer long ago. When he hopped on my husband’s bike to set out for a solo ride to the botanic garden, I noticed he didn’t have a camera with him (This was in the day of no mobile phones and Canon Sure Shots). When I offered him mine, he waved me off. “It’s all up here,” he said, pointing to his mind’s memory. I wondered if not taking photographs while visiting a new place was an English thing. I accepted his reasoning and found it curious. Surely he would want to take photos to capture memories of his adventures? But then I thought he would make memories anyway without photographing the moment.

Are taking photos even necessary to hold on to our harvested memories?

I think of the many photo albums that are embedded together on the two top closet shelves in my hallway. They are a hard-bound collection of frayed blood-red, navy, and evergreen books, covers accented in thin gold lines. Some books my husband and I had made together, a few are from our separate lives. The books have been a fixture on those shelves for decades, their pages heavy and cramped with a lack of turning, that I’d forgotten they were even there. I wondered if the albums never existed, would we miss something we never had? Would we regret not taking a photo, let’s say, of our visits to San Francisco?

We hold a multitude of memories that have never been captured by a camera. These are moments that could never be defined by a small visual square. Think of the memories you have traded organically in conversations with friends, family, partners. You add to the moments that a photograph never would . . . or could.

Someone once said, “a photo is a return ticket to a moment otherwise gone.” Or maybe not.

My husband and I may not have a photo of the apartment building in swanky Pacific Heights of San Francisco, where we met and lived for a few years, but we have the memories, recalling such a large apartment, for San Francisco standards, with a pink-tiled bathroom, and a spacious entryway. We may not have a photo of the Marina Green, but we remember eating ice cream while sitting in our parked car on Sunday afternoons at the Marina, and watching the ferocious wind sweep the Bay into white caps. A photograph wasn’t required to preserve these moments.

Sometimes moments don’t need prompting for a photo.

Extensive social media postings exist. Anything from a tight shot of a short bar glass with a ball of ice suspended in an amber-colored liquid of a bourbon Old Fashioned cocktail, to a panoramic vista of teal water and capped mountains of Lake Louise, British Columbia is shared. I don’t need a photo to remind me of the heat dripping down my throat from the liquor’s golden taste while sitting at a table in my favorite restaurant, or an image to remember being struck with awe when seeing the jeweled water of that Lake, or the feeling of spent legs from hiking up the mountain over bumpy terrain slippery from mist.

Instead of hastening to take a photo, stop, and inhale the moment. Remember the color, or absence of it. Take in the sounds, the action and reactions of people in your frame. What you will hold in your memory will be that which strikes you.

I have started to cull my photo collection. It’s okay. I’m not afraid to let them go. I know I still have many moments, stories, I have remembered that never did get captured by a camera.

How about your photo collection? Do you have many collected in a computer file? Pasted into an album? Or how about on your smartphone?