I think they’re leaving it all behind. I think they woke up one day and decided there’s more to life. I think they decided—a couple in love, a boy and a girl—that they wanted to explore the world. They sold their possessions and bought a boat … She loves to play music, and he loves to capture moments on film…
My eyes left the camera bag that I knew so well. I understood where she got her theory about the boats.
He loves to capture moments on film…
I tried to be angry with her. I gave up taking pictures two years ago; it wasn’t who I was anymore. It was no longer my dream. NYU wasn’t in my plans. I didn’t want to pick the camera back up. But my fingers began to twitch, and, despite being pissed at myself, I lifted the lid off the case and peered inside.
The old black-and-chrome vintage Canon that I had treasured stared up at me. I felt my face blanch, the blood moving to rush through to my heart, which slammed against my ribs. I had thrown this camera away. I had discarded it and all that it meant.
I had no idea how the hell Poppy had gotten hold of it. I wondered if she’d tracked down another and bought it. I lifted it from the bag and turned it over. There, scratched into the back, was my name. I had scraped it there on my thirteenth birthday, when my mamma and pappa gave me this camera.
It was the exact one.
Poppy had found my camera.
Flipping the back, I saw a full roll of film inside. In the bag lay the lenses. The ones I knew so well. Despite the years, I still instinctively knew which one would work best for any given shot—landscape, portrait, nighttime, daylight, natural setting, studio…
Hearing a soft rustle from behind me, I glanced over my shoulder. Poppy was sitting, watching me. Her eyes fell to the camera. Nervously inching forward, she said, “I asked your pappa about it. Where it had gone. He told me that you threw it away.” Poppy’s head tilted to the side. “You never knew, and he never told you, but he found it. He saw you had thrown it away. You had broken parts of it. The lenses were cracked, and other things.” I was clenching my jaw so tightly it ached.
Poppy’s finger traced the back of my hand that was resting in the blanket. “He had it repaired without you knowing. He’s kept it safe for the past couple of years. He’s kept up hope that you would find your way back to photography. He knew how much you loved it. He also blames himself for the fact that you gave it up.”
My instinct was to open my mouth and hiss out that it was his fault. Everything was. But I didn’t. For some reason the twist in my stomach kept my mouth shut.
Poppy’s eyes glistened. “You should have seen him last night, when I asked him about it. He was so emotional, Rune. Even your mamma didn’t know he’d kept it. He even had reels of film ready. Just in case you ever wanted it back.”
I averted my gaze from Poppy’s, instead re-focusing on the camera. I didn’t know how to feel about all that. I tried for angry. But, to my surprise, anger refused to come. For some reason I couldn’t get the image from my head, of my pappa cleaning the camera and getting it fixed, on his own.
“He even has the darkroom ready and waiting for you, at your house.” I closed my eyes when Poppy added the last part. I was silent. Completely silent in response. My head was racing with too many thoughts, too many images. And I was conflicted. I had vowed never to take another picture.
But vowing it had been one thing. Holding the object of my addiction in my hands compromised everything I had sworn to fight against. To rebel against. To throw away, just like my pappa had cast aside my feelings when he chose to return to Oslo. The pit of heat in my stomach began to spread. This was the anger I anticipated. This was the blast of fire I was expecting.
I inhaled deeply, bracing for the darkness to overwhelm me, when, suddenly, Poppy jumped to her feet. “I’m going to the water,” she announced and walked past me without another word. I watched her walk off. I watched her sink her feet into the soft sand, the breeze flicking up her short hair. I stayed, mesmerized, as she skipped to the water’s edge, allowing the breaking waves to lap over her feet. She held her dress higher on her legs to avoid the splashes.
Her head tipped back to feel the sun on her face. Then, she glanced back to where I sat. She glanced back and she laughed. Free, without abandon, like she had no cares in the world.
I was transfixed, even more so when a reflected ray of sun from the sea cast a golden sheen on the side of her face, her green eyes emerald in this new light.
I lost my breath, actually fought for breath at how stunning she looked. Before I had even thought it through, I had my camera in my hand. I felt the weight transfer into my hands, and closing my eyes, I let the urge succeed.
Opening my eyes, I lifted the camera to my eye. Uncapping the lens, I found the most perfect angle of my girl dancing in the waves.
And I clicked.
I clicked the button on the camera, my heart stuttering at every snap of the shutter, sure in the knowledge that I was capturing Poppy in this moment—happy.
Adrenalin surged through me at the thought of how these pictures would develop. It was why I used the vintage camera. The anticipation of the darkroom, the delayed gratification of seeing the wonder that you had caught. The skill it took to work the camera to achieve that perfect shot.
A split second of serenity.
A moment of magic.
Poppy, in her own world, ran along the shore, her cheeks flushing pink with the warmth of the sun. Lifting her hands into the air, Poppy let the hem of her dress fall and dampen with splashes from the water.
Then she turned to face me. As she did, she grew perfectly still, as did my heart in my chest. My finger waited, poised over the button, waiting for the right shot. And then it came. It came as a look of pure bliss spread across her face. It came as her eyes closed and her head tilted back, as if it were a relief, as if uncensored happiness possessed her.
I lowered the camera. Poppy held out her hand. Feeling high from the rush of having my passion sprung upon me, I jumped to my feet and walked across the sand.
When I took Poppy’s hand, she pulled me close and pressed her lips on mine. I let her take the lead. I let her show me how much this meant to her. This moment. And I let myself feel it too. I allowed myself, for this brief moment, to push aside the heaviness I always carried like a shield. I allowed myself to get lost in the kiss, lifting the camera up high. Even with my eyes closed and no direction, I was convinced I had captured the best picture of the day.
Poppy stepped back and silently guided me back to the blanket, sitting us down, resting her head on my shoulder. I lifted my arm over her warm, sun-kissed shoulders and pulled her in close to my side. Poppy glanced up as I lazily placed a kiss to her head. When I met her eyes, I sighed and pressed my forehead to hers.
“You’re welcome,” she whispered, as she looked away to stare out over the sea.
I hadn’t felt like this in so long. I hadn’t felt this peace inside since before we parted. And I was thankful to Poppy.
More than thankful.
Suddenly a quiet, awed gasp escaped Poppy’s mouth. “Look, Rune,” she whispered pointing into the distance. I wondered what she wanted me to see, then she said, “Our footprints in the sand.” She lifted her head and smiled a beaming smile. “Two sets. Four prints. Just like the poem.”
I pulled my eyebrows down in confusion. Poppy’s hand lay over my bent knee. With her head tucked under the shelter of my arm, she explained. “It’s my favorite poem, Rune. It was my mamaw’s favorite too.”