WRITER’S PEN IN A PHOTOGRAPHER’S HAND
My Prompt for this day- “Make pictures without using a camera.”
Wisps of human motions and emotions were sketched on paper to become a verbal photograph.
I had noticed the old couple on the beach every day for years. As I watched them walk in concert with nature’s conversation, I felt myself slip silently into their shoes.
Morning at the beach stretches our awakening into a wide and shining day. The sky and sea are sunny and blue. Gulls are grey swoops flying on into the afternoon. Just before sundown shore birds are still, hushed by a Master unseen. I busy myself with inconsequential concerns until darkness creeps in, introducing me to the beginning of another end.Time to sit and allow evening to descend, I offer no corrections to Nature’s hand. Nighttime knows how best to ease Himself across the land, as does Mamma Ocean understand how seductively She rolls upon the sand.
I see them again. The Old Couple. I know them as well as I know anyone else in my life. Tea sloshes gently in the burnished pot which the lovers brought along on their walk. They pour and share amber liquid in two cups with the handles broken off. Their pot, though swinging between them spills not a drop.
I wonder whether they know that their private moments are cherished daily by me? Like a photograph beneath my hand and pen, time is my telephoto lens. I am curious how many images in my own life might repeat themselves before I come to my own end.
Months go by-
It is morning. I notice she is alone. She notices how still the birds seem since He has left. “Remarkable how they agreed together to hush so early in the day,”she thinks to herself.
She knows not more than brief moments are her sunny afternoons. Her darkness hums a sorrowed tune that hypnotizes our feathered friends to rest upon the land. Rheumy eyes turn their whites toward the ocean rolling upon the sleepless sand. Meager warmth is poured into a single cup until she has emptied her crazed and weathered tea pot. Homeward on each of her remaining evenings she walks. The conversation although onesided, never stops.
These are but moments photographed by ink in hand, recorded in cursive swoops on paper the color of sand.