“Try the photo again. This time include the two other windows closest to the cat. Match the symmetry of the empty windows with the symmetry of the horizontal and vertical lines.”
I did as I was told and snapped the shutter. When I looked at the picture I had taken, I was amazed at the difference. The first two thirds of the image contained two perfectly symmetrical windows, and then the last third contained a window just like the other two, but also not like them. Because this one held a cat. And my eye was drawn to it.
“Wow,” I said.
“This photo tells us a story. Several stories maybe.”
“That’s pretty cool.”
Lark smiled. “Yes. It is. Now let’s do some more.”
We continued walking toward Grand Canal and Beacon Bay, stopping along the way so I could take pictures of boats in their slips, footprints in the sand, and the wooden docks. Then we took a side street leading away from the water, where I tried a few more shots of buildings, trees, and people—when I could do it without drawing attention to myself.
Every few shots, Lark would offer some pointers so that I gradually began to feel more confident about the proper way to compose a photo, how to minimize shadows, and how to take advantage of the sun’s unique lighting. She also took the camera off its automatic setting so that I could experiment with manual focus and shutter speed. I took a number of duds, but Lark just deleted them and told me to try again.
By three fifteen, my mind was tired and I was ready for a break. Lark suggested more coffee, with cinnamon rolls this time.
“My kind of food,” I said, and I told her to lead the way.
We walked to yet another outdoor coffee shop. We settled at a table outside, this time choosing a spot in the sun rather than in the shade because the air was growing cooler.
“Are you having fun?” she asked.
“It’s more mentally exhausting than I thought it would be. There’s so much to consider. I had no idea.”
“When it becomes second nature to you, it won’t seem like work. Anything new is difficult until you get past the learning curve. You’re doing well.”
“Am I?”
She smiled. “Yes. Especially for someone who has never owned a camera before. Your mother would be proud.”
I smiled back. “I wish I could know what drew her to photography, but that’s not something anyone else could ever tell me. My Amish family wouldn’t know, of course. I doubt my dad would either.” I took a sip of my coffee.
“It’s probably not some complicated reason. In fact, I’m sure it’s not.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because I know why I love it. Photography enables me to capture moments that would otherwise just blend into all the other moments that have passed. My photos are a reflection of me—what I see and how I see it. Just think about it, Tyler. We can freeze time and be able to look back at it years later, maybe seeing something new or different because even though the image hasn’t changed, we have.”
I took a bite of my cinnamon roll and used the moments my mouth was full to consider her words and wonder what my mother would have wanted to look back on over time. What moments might she have yearned to capture on film that would have otherwise just blended into all the other forgotten moments?
“Do you remember her?”
“I remember little things about her. Certain things she said to me. Or the way she said them. And my grandparents and other family members have told me a little.”
“And your dad?”
“He’s never been one to talk much about her. Plus, I didn’t see him for the first few years after she died.”
Lark shook her head. “I don’t get that at all.”
“What? That I lived with my grandparents?”
“That he just left you there.”
“My dad thought I would have a more stable life with them. Then, by the time he came back, I’d been there so long it just seemed more logical to stay.”
Lark tore off a piece of her cinnamon roll and tossed it into her mouth. “But really, Tyler, did you want to stay with your grandparents after your dad finally came back for you? Or did you stay because maybe you were scared of the unknown?”
I was about to say yes, I wanted to stay, but I couldn’t get the words to come out of my mouth. Instead, I asked, “Is that so odd? My Amish family was the only family I knew. And I had a really great life there. Surrounded by loved ones, animals, lots of fun work to do and plenty of hands to do it…” My voice trailed off when I realized I was protesting too much.
“So when did you and your dad ever see each other? Or did you?”
“Of course we saw each other. I flew out to visit every summer until I was sixteen. Sometimes Dad and Brady came out to Philly to see me. We made it work.”
Lark shrugged and tore off another piece of her roll. “If you say so.”
“We made it work,” I repeated, as much to convince her as to convince myself. We had made it work. It wasn’t the most conventional of arrangements, but what’s conventional about a child’s mother dying? Nothing.