The Photo
This essay was written as part of an exercise that I do daily, prompted by Summer Brennan's Five Things.
A photo, obscured and blurry due to it's swift movement drifted by the strong winds that warned of the upcoming rainstorm, twirled up and down, mimicking leaves and light trash - a receipt from an impromptu grocery shopping, a pink plastic bag with handles that was so thin it was see-through, a stray piece of cardboard box the size of a pig's snout (a cut-out remnant from a child's handmade mask no doubt) - before finally curtseying onto the ground. Dust from the fine sand settles as the photo made its descent, adding a theatrical flair to the otherwise ignored scene.
A child's laughter echoes through the cracks of blowing wind. She is playing chase with her older sister, who was letting her win. She turns and makes a taunting face at her sibling, daring her sister to catch her, her long black hair whipping across her face violently. She steps onto the photograph carelessly and it clings to the bottom of her shiny red ballerina pumps, accompanying her for a few steps before gaining momentum to fly again.
On its second flight, it smacks onto the glass sliding doors of a house painted grey with red slanted roof, revealing itself so distinctly one could almost see the specks of dust captured in the image, but alas, the revelation remained futile, as the house, at the moment of its appearance, was empty.
It continued on, up and down it went, left and right, and upside down, now right side up, letting the wind commandeer its path, letting go, allowing fate to take its course.
The traffic lights turn red somewhere, elsewhere, and the wind obeys, the photograph, beaten from its tiresome journey, surrenders and floats gently down.
I picked it up out of curiosity, my hands smudged from picking blueberries in the garden, tainting its edges with the purple juice. A thousand memories rushed pass me, holding me captive in a vortex of recollection.
A tear falls from my cheek and I feel its salty trail moving down my face before it dives onto the grass, making the blade it touched shiver.
I tucked the photograph into the pocket of my black apron, patted the exterior reassuringly, as if I was comforting an upset child, and for a few years, forget that I'd put it there, planning to use it as a bookmark for the book I was reading, not just to remind me where I had read last but also to remind me how it was when I felt last.