I couldn’t think of anything to write about this week for my blog so I decided to share a short story I wrote a while back. I not only take pictures, I also like to write. Although I don’t write as much as I used to back in High school.
One of my clients inspired this story. When she picked up her proofs a few weeks after her wedding, she told me that the ring bearer had tragically been killed in a car wreck. This news tore out my heart. Such a sweet child and to think I may have been the last person to ever take a picture of him. I’ve never been the type to outwardly show my emotions, I’ve always written it down in my journal or wrote poetry or short stories instead.
I wrote the story from my point of view; how I would feel. I think it expresses how I feel about photography and why I think it’s so important in our lives. I hope you enjoy the story.
By Roxanne Crouse
I opened the bag from the one hour photo and began to look through the images. Slowly at first, then more quickly as my heart began to race. The little blond boy, my son, starred in most of them looking beautiful with his uncut messy hair and dirty cake covered face. I watched as he consecutively tore through each of his birthday presents enthusiastically. Next he blew out seven candles on his cake and ate a ton of sugar with his friends.
My eyes began to water out of control as I got to the last image, the fourteenth image. Only fourteen, I should have bought more film. My son sat on a video game motorcycle staring at the screen trying to drive but the fake bike and controls were too big and spread out for him to manipulate them well. He tried anyway. He never listened to me; his will was like stone, unbreakable.
I looked at his colorful unmatched clothes and untamable hair and my heart sank deep into my chest. So deep I never thought I’d be able to put it back where it belonged. I wished so badly that he would have looked at the camera for this last picture, his last picture. I didn’t want to think about it.
Had I known, I would have bought more film. I would have tried to get better shots. The pictures seemed so insignificant then. I thought I had plenty of time, his whole life to get great shots of him. Now this poorly exposed image where he wasn’t even looking was the last.
I fell against the wall and slid to the ground holding the image in my hand. I cried out letting all my pain finally escape. I didn’t care what the people on the sidewalk thought, this pain throbbed in me, and I could no longer hide from the truth. The truth that he was gone and this piece of paper was my last memory of him.