<\/p>\n
Things don\u2019t stay, so he tries to make them stay. Point, click, flash, adjust, click again. Fill the roll. Days later, he can hold the images and let his heart pour out over and over. He can\u2019t handle the leaving. People, yes, but places too. Walking toward the rest of his life a kind of small death. Who suggested photography? Maybe it was his mother. He started during the war, once they shipped him off and he knew\u2014thank god\u2014that he was going to tidy up Japan, not die on its beaches. He drove a supply truck around the countryside, chauffeured the Red Cross observers. Before basic training, he\u2019d never left Chicago, and something whispered that after his tour ended, he might never leave again. So he took pictures. Of ocean waves, train depots, tiny trees. He\u2019d never seen such tiny trees. Boys by the roadside, sitting on crates, and his barracks-mates at HQ, leaned against the wall like a pack of Bogarts.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Never thought much of his photos, but people raved. Fred, you\u2019re a natural. You should open a studio.<\/em> He took a class at the Skokie Park District, learned about lighting and composition, lenses and aperture. Easy to sound expert saying words like aperture. It\u2019s the eye of the camera, that\u2019s all. You don\u2019t take pictures with your eyes, you take them with your heart.<\/em> The instructor said that. A long-haired hippie in cargo shorts, a real weirdo, but he had a point. Don\u2019t point the camera unless something moves you.<\/em> And here\u2019s Fred, pointing the camera at everything. His heart overflowing at clouds or a fallen leaf. So many snaps, so many rolls at Walgreens. Moved by everything, even before the grandkids.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n And don\u2019t get him started on the grandkids. Without photography, he might\u2019ve smothered them to an early grave. Soccer game, half a roll. Spring concert, half a roll. Brunch at Omega gets a few snaps by the pastry case or in the booth. Every birthday party, two rolls at least. They squirm as he makes them sit for a last group shot on their basement couch, the one flecked with colors like a Jackson Pollock. He hunts for candids as if giggles were going extinct. Their grandfather on the other side dubs him \u201cGrandpa Flash\u201d because the Nikon never leaves his neck. You\u2019ll want to remember later<\/em>, he thinks in response. They\u2019ll never be this young again.<\/em> Even the people you spin your life around are always leaving and coming back different. In every full roll, there\u2019s a manic satisfaction.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Yet he\u2019s still mourning every moment. He can pick up a photo, relive wonder and joy, but it\u2019s silvered with sadness. Lately, too, he can stare for minutes and not recall a thing. Not the really old ones, but the middle distance. Ten, fifteen years. Even with the labels\u2014Iris labels everything\u2014it\u2019s like the pictures were taken by someone else.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n The other day he was clumsy and knocked his stacks off the table. Why waste time making albums? He keeps his photos in the paper drugstore envelopes. Lay them out or speed through like a flipbook. Whenever you want, just pull a packet.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n He has a few packets out, ready to time-travel, all the pictures neatly stacked. And on his way to the bathroom, he bumps the table. Everything spills to the floor, memories shuffled like playing cards. Which hills are Galilee and which are Mexico? Which Jeremy is five years old and which is six? He\u2019s on his knees, groping, holding photos side-by-side. He wants to cry.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Iris walks in and sees the mess he\u2019s made. \u201cWhat\u2019ll I do with you?\u201d she says. \u201cYou\u2019re worse than the grandkids.\u201d She\u2019s teasing, but it doesn\u2019t land. \u201cThat\u2019s just it,\u201d he says. \u201cThe grandkids.\u201d She doesn\u2019t get it. He\u2019s already losing them. It scares the bejeezus out of him. How he could never hold those moments in the first place. Half of life you miss standing around watching. The rest you miss living it.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Jeffrey Wolf Things don\u2019t stay, so he tries to make them stay. Point, click, flash, adjust, click again. Fill the roll. Days later, he can hold the images and let his heart pour out over and over. He can\u2019t handle the leaving. People, yes, but places too. Walking toward the rest of his life […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"featured_media":9283,"template":"","categories":[9,48,49],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-9280","article","type-article","status-publish","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-aquifer","category-fiction","category-literary-features"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\n