I still remember the “vidro” (a glass toy) that my dad bought for me on a family trip to Nagasaki in my childhood. This was probably more than 30 years ago.
I don't remember where we went or what we ate, but for some reason, I remember the “vidro” very clearly. It was a sphere with a pattern outlined in black lines like colorful stained glass. The shadows cast by the lights were beautiful and looked like a piece of jewelry.
Looking back, I always liked shiny, transparent things, and I thought the marble was beautiful. My mom was a seamstress, so we had many of her tiny beads and sequins in the house, and I loved looking at them. When you hold a kaleidoscope and look inside, you'll find a lot of these things. I would love to reach in and touch the shiny things rolling around, but I can't. All I can do is turn them and watch them roll around inside and shine.
I feel the same way when I point the camera at my daughter or my wife. Every time I look through the camera, they look different, move freely, and smile. But when I reach out to touch them, their shimmering faces disappear like a midsummer mirage.