Wide Angle Lens

A bit of a story that popped into my head this morning:

He didn't know why he stayed in this town. He loathed the sight of the same buildings, shelved like cereal boxes, generic ones with no specific color, only the necessary information displayed. However, on Fridays, the past six days came into focus. She always dropped off her film a little past 10. His cigarette smoked, coffee consumed, and a fresh mint melting away the stench of the two, he was made ready for her arrival. Small talk and still observations were all that were exchanged. He knew her preferences: single prints only. The shots were unusual but the composition distinct, unique. The "R" in a Ramada Inn sign; a manhole cover; a stack of books, titles indiscernible; the wrinkled, round mouth of an elderly woman. He knew her full name, address and phone number backwards, but always handed the form over to her, fearful of making her uncomfortable with automatically filling it out himself. He wondered if she even noticed him, if she could place her finger on the way he smelled or any of his habits, speech pattern, anything that distinguished him. Was he ever mentioned in passing to a friend, even in association with the store, or was her Friday encounter with him never anticipated, fretted over, rehearsed, done only as the next item on the list, casually crossed off and forgotten until next weeks agenda was set.

Pink Moon

The fleeting moments of satisfaction- no, of great blessedness- came suddenly upon me this morning. C and K were unloading the dishwasher. Wait, they were arguing with one another about unloading the dishwasher (not arbitrary either, expected every morning). I came upstairs to lay down the law, but found instead that maybe I needed to lay down some soul. I slipped in Nick Drake and told them that Uncle Nick loves this CD and that his dog is even named after him. A small, slight grin slipped from the corner of C's mouth. A big one emerged from my own. Mission accomplished vicariously through my brother.

It reminded me when Nick was small and we would use reverse psychology to get him to finish his meals, drink his milk, clean-up toys, etc. "You're too small to get that done, " we would say. His face would explode with laughter and giggles and he would insist he was going to do it anyway. Five minutes later, we were done. This memory came suddenly, quickly and then lead me into another. Not a memory, but an anticipation. An exchange of vows- ceremonial, and sacred. Promises that are steps to being called into account for you life. Words given to be a witness that your life existed beyond your work and morning commute. An agreement that no longer will your pain and joy be only your own, but will be shared and born together, not in perfect happiness, sometimes with tremendous and exhausting effort, but in the name of love and reciprocal validation of your presence here.