Vignette

 Somewhere in a photography store are photos of the Oregon Coast

The film had been bought years prior, cradled by coins collected and placed in a catch all jar 

I remember watching a YouTube video three times, rewinding again again again 

As I carefully enrolled the film between cupped hands to shield it from what little sunlight broke through 

I could feel him watching me from the corner of his eye as he spoke on the phone but pushed his purview to side as the dial clicked.

We walked to the beach barefoot and the rocks were sharp under my feet, the callouses of my childhood turned to softness

I remember running through rivers and climbing trees as a girl

The way my mother would watch me only slightly, assured in the toughness of my skin 

And my ability to tread lightly on seashells, eggshells, cliff-sides and girlhood

I brought her up that drive when hours had bleed through into the roadway and he told me, “Pass. I only want to talk about happy things.” 

Click.

We’re walking on the pathway near the lighthouse, stopping at a lookout where the ocean stretches out.

I think about shipwrecks,

Lighthouses and lighthouse keepers.

His arms encircle me as I look out and he tells me, “I love you.”

I can almost taste the sincerity with the salt in the air,

I can tell that he believes it and I do my best to allow myself too

Perhaps that is just hindsight, darkening the edges of a memory.

I try to show him how to use the camera, how to balance the light. 

Click.

When the lab sent the digital prints, the images seemed to fade into the darkness.

A haze almost — cigarette smoke lingering

Vignette.

Most of our memories are framed that way.

Now, despite being landlocked,

I outline my doorway and window frames in sea salt

— try not to get swept off my feet by lurking waves.