Snapshots

Snapshot - n. An isolated observation. My brain is filled with them, but only a few stand out, either dramatically or romantically, as truly key moments in my life. Here, I'll develop them into some kind of word photograph for your viewing pleasure. I hope you like black and white.

1983, Grand Canyon, Arizona - I stand on a precipice, some sort of dangerous outcropping which overlooks the Canyon, my knees a bit wobbly, but it seems a test of my courage and an attempt to immerse myself as deeply as possible into the surrounding beauty. I am Elizabeth Bennet from the film Pride and Prejudice, but without the long, flapping skirts.

1986, My sister's backyard, rural Indiana - I sit in a chair, warm in the summer sun, smiling down at my first son who is only weeks old. I happen to look up, still smiling, and my eyes meet the gaze of my ex-bad-boy who has apparently been studying the scene before him, and in that moment his eyes seem to say, "Oh, crap. I may have made a mistake by not scooping you up when I had the chance." This is as near as I have ever come to starring in a scene from a romantic movie.

2007, Hospital room, Indianapolis - My nuclear family and I are alone together in a room with my dying father. I stand at the foot of the bed, my mother and one older brother on one side, and my eldest brother and older sister on the other. It occurs to me that this is the first time we have been alone together as a family in possibly thirty years. I am not unaware that it will also be the last time. And in that wordless moment, this snapshot that remains indelibly etched in memory, are revealed volumes of words to rival Ridpath's History of the World.