One day I will relive my life, and it won't be that moment at the end that everyone talks about when your life flashes before your eyes.

It'll be something like that, but from what I've heard, it'll take a little longer.

It won't be a flash.

This is how it will happen.

I will be sitting on a chair or couch somewhere, in front of a television that hasn't been made yet. I might be alone, maybe not.

And I'll watch all of it. And maybe I'll be sad, maybe not. But I know I'll be nostalgic.

And here's why.

For as long as I can remember—since 2001 to be exact—my dad has whipped out the most cumbersome video camera at every family event we have ever hosted or attended.

Christmas, Halloween, Thanksgiving, Fourth of July, Hanukkah... the list goes on.

We'll be sitting around a large table, or maybe we'll be in the living room watching television. My dad will disappear for a second or two, and come back with a rather large smile on his face, holding a video camera that is no longer made or sold.

It'll be on and recording as he walks in the room. He will hold it up and everyone will shy away, yell at him, or roll their eyes, because generally everyone is right in the middle of a conversation or has just stuffed too much food in their mouth to smile. No one is prepared to be filmed.

My dad will ask everyone to say something—a "Happy Holidays!" or something of that nature.

My grandma will complain that she doesn't have enough lipstick on. My grandpa will say he has too much food in his mouth to make a comment. He'll swing his hand over in front of his face as if to say, "Come on Brian, put it down." My mother will yell at him because she's trying to move some dishes around and he's getting in her way. I'll just sit there awkwardly with my cousins. And everyone else will either wave to the camera or act in a manner like those I've mentioned.

The white light of the camera is blinding. It throws everyone off for a minute.

And then it's over—quickly. And we can carry on.

And that is how it has been for as long as I can remember.

My dad has never once—nor will he ever, as far as I can imagine—watch these videos for himself. My grandparents don't want to see them.

So then there's me. I don't have any siblings.

And so one day, when I'm older—though I'm not sure how old—I will watch back approximately 100 videos of my family, whom sadly, will have probably passed on.

The video will feature them over the span of 20-ish years—assuming the video camera makes it at least another five. And I will watch them all.

I will watch them age. I will watch them laugh. I will watch them yell at my dad and shy their heads away. I will watch them talking and laughing with one another, and eating the most amazing holiday food I have ever tasted. I will see them dressed up, and happy, with the people they love.

And I'm not sure how I will feel about any of this yet.

Quite honestly, the video camera doesn't bother anyone as much as we claim it does. It's an annoyance, but really it's not that bad.

As my grandparents have gotten older, it's actually made me a bit sad—of course, it never used to when I was young. It truly captures certain moments I spend with them—moments I will not get back, if not for the few minutes of tape that my dad has acquired at each holiday, each year, for 15 years.

But this Thanksgiving, I was startled and moved, when the moment arrived.

My uncle—always one for jokes—looked into the archaic video camera as my dad walked around, and waved: "Hi Jen and family! I hope you're well."

And I will hear him say that some day. And I hope I'll be well when I do.