He took a picture every day, even after he died.
His camera, an old Brownie Hawkeye, served him well for his long years. He was never what you’d call a professional, nor was he particularly talented in its use, but it had been always at his side, as though it were a rare sort of fraternal twin. In truth, it had been an abandoned purchase by his father, a man for whom money was rare but alcohol was plentiful, and it had been purchased from a pawn shop in a drunken stupor one soused payday evening. His father, deeply stubborn even after the glow of the booze had burned away, refused to admit that spending nearly an entire paycheck on it was a poor idea, but had made a token effort to use it only once, before shoving it onto a shelf in the newborn’s room in frustration where it overlooked an old, wooden crib that held a new, tiny occupant.
The unplanned decoration caught the eye of the baby, and remained in that special section of a child’s mind where the mysteries of the adult world settle and grow. As he grew older, learned to talk, learned to walk, learned to learn, the boy begged after his mother to divulge the secrets of the black box on the shelf. For more years than he could remember, she would simply look sad and say it was nothing, later that it wasn’t a toy, and later still, that it was a memory of his father.Read More