by: Megan Finsel
She smiled back at me from the photo I had just taken. I was standing alone on the street corner outside what was now my apartment. Yet here she was, in the black and white image I held.
She looked very young, maybe nine or ten. She was standing with her back to the lamppost, her hair in pigtails and a bandage across her right knee. Her face was round, and her eyes were innocent.
I’d found this Polaroid camera in the attic this morning. I held it up again, focusing on the lamppost across the street.
Click.
I shook the photo carefully, watching as two figures slowly appeared. Same girl, she looked taller, and she was holding hands with a young man.
Click.
She was older now, more mature, and her husband stood with her in the doorway. The sunlight glinted off my own engagement ring. I stared at it for a moment, my heart pounding.
Click.
Even older now, she looked exhausted. Three kids played around her in the yard. I could swear she could see me, judging by the glare on her face, and the warning in her eyes.
Click.
Her face was sadder, her hair was stringy. She sat in a wheelchair, hugging her body with willowy arms. Age had stolen most of her vigor, and her smile. She looked defeated. I could only stare into her eyes, as she stared back into mine.
I knew her, and she knew me. We were the same person; the same life transcending time to be captured on film.
I raised the camera one more time, but stopped. I knew what would come next. I was prepared, but I couldn’t bring myself to press the button. I gazed up at the lamppost, standing lonely on the street corner. The wind slowly pulled the photos from between my fingers and I let them go, watching them whirl away down the sidewalk.
Bio: Writing is my passion. It’s how I connect with the world, and how I share my thoughts, ideas, and feelings. If you want to truly know me more, you need to read my stories because I put a piece of my heart into each one.