Annoyed, I moved to the other end of the driveway and squinted my eyes until they began to tear. "Can I move now, Dad?" I asked.
"Not yet, just give me another minute." His face was shielded by the Nikon camera, but I could see his mouth flip downwards into its familiar scowl as he exclaimed, "Wait. I'm out of film." Itching to move away from the sunlight, I ran towards him. He held the camera close to my ear. "Do you hear that sound?" "Yes" I replied. It was a gentle whirring sound--not as intense as a vaccuum, but softer and strangely melodic. "That means the film is rewinding. I have to replace it."
My anticipation heightened, not with the photograph but the knowledge that any minute the blaringly yellow schoolbus would turn down Deborah Drive. I examined my new white shoes, which buckled at the top of my feet—mary janes, I think they were called. My hair was impeccably groomed; my mother even let me put Wet n' Wild hair gel it, a rare treat for anyone under the age of ten. I examined my red and white polka dot dress, and admired the tier of ruffles around my knees. Impatiently, I craned my neck towards the end of the street. My father remarked, "Let me take one more. Why don't you walk to the front of the driveway, an action shot." "Okay, I said", and I started half skipping to the edge of the driveway. "No, not like that." "Move closer to the grass, and don't move around so much!" As I attempted to pose, I noticed a moving object to my right: the bus rounding the corner. Since we live in a cul-de-sac, I knew I would have additional time as it circled around the street. Frozen for the photograph, I remained in one spot. As the bus approached our driveway, my face crumpled and I began to cry, running from the bus. I ran past my father, who was capturing the image with the camera, and towards my mother, hugging her tightly, exclaiming: "Please don't make me get on the bus. I don't want to go to Kindergarten. Please, mom!" Enveloped in my mother's strong, comforting arms, I breathed in the familiar scent of her Charlie perfume and Finesse hairspray. Through my haze of tears and uncertainties, I remember her encouraging me on the bus, talking me onto it with the assistance of a patient driver and a neighbor as my seat buddy.
One of the photographs from that day captured this experience—the image of the bus and my moment of disintegration. I asked my father about the photograph, and he confided that he must have taken it as the scene was unfolding. It was not planned or perfectly centered, a rarity for my father, who usually had control complete of his subjects. His perfection with photography was evident from his profession as an architect, his ability to effectively plan spaces, and the Van-Gogh like doodles on napkins he left around the kitchen table. Shy and soft-spoken, he was comfortable behind the camera, while my mother thrived in front of it.
[When asked if I had memories of my mother and the camera, I originally nodded instantly, commenting I had "so many." After further thought, the ones I have are so few . . . perhaps her awkwardly holding a camera and muttering, "I don't really know how to use this thing" or my father examining the developed photographs, commenting, "Who took these? In several of these someone's finger is in front of the lens!"] I think this paragraph can be taken out and you can read it from the previous to the next…or, it can be left in to emphasize your project.While my father was concerned, even fanatical sometimes, about arranging photographs, my mother was focused on the people in them. Even her name “Eileen”, which is Gaelic for "light", reflects her vibrancy, her infectious joy and warmth. The memories I have of her are not behind the lens of a camera, but as the light-filled focus--laughing, nurturing, exploring, and living.
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