The Canon Camera

The crocheted curtains let the sun rays reach the third-floor studio apartment on 9^th Street. The potheads are giggling as they make their way out of the alleyways and go back home from a night of smoking, laughing, and eating Insomnia Cookies. Melody is asleep, her orange freckles resting on her face like the stars calmly rest in a midnight sky, her bright orange hair like a lion’s mane over her pillow. Her phone plays Claire de Lune as it vibrates, this has been her alarm since 8^th grade, when she cared about what song she would first listen to start her day. Now she smacks her phone and wakes up slowly, looking around as if she is a stranger to those dull hardwood floors, the burned peace lily sitting at the sunniest corner near the fridge, the fridge that holds all of the baking supplies she used once or twice, and the funny “I.C.U.P.” framed cross stitch on the bathroom wall.

Melody gets ready for work, her morning coffee brews as she showers, and she heads out the door with a banana in one hand and a coffee cup in the other. She heads down to the bus stop, says hello to Mr. Fusly, the bus driver, and drifts off as the city of brotherly love slowly wakes up with her. She gets off on 20^th and Shunk, walks a bit, grabs a lanyard with what looks like thousands of keys and opens the front door of the Free Library.

Inside, she locks the door and walks over to the light switches, turning all of them on. The library wakes up bit by bit, unveiling the archways, high ceilings, and modern chandeliers. She turns on two of the computers that sit in the tech corner and all the catalogue computers. Soon enough Marco de Lucca, all bundled up in his winter coat, is outside the door knocking and jumping around to swear off the cold.

“Hey, Mr. De Lucca!” She says as she unlocks the heavy wooden door and opens it a bit.

“Now, I thought we talked about this already! Just Marco is fine with me, Miss Melody!” Marco tells Melody in his usual way of being everybody’s grandpa.

“Okay, mis- Marco. Now, we don’t open until 8 a.m., but since it’s only 6 minutes ‘til then and you’re one of my favorites, I’ll allow it…” She tells him, opening the door completely for him to make his way inside. Before she knows it, Marco is looking at the shelves in the mystery and thriller section of the library. He has already let out a shushed “There you are!”, grabbing a book and making his way to the sitting area.

Marco De Lucca is a tanned, old Italian guy who has lived in Philly all his life. His parents came straight from Italy and sometimes you get lucky and he tells everyone in the library about his parents’ life in Italy. How his dad, a Sardinian, ran into a stuck-up young lady in the streets of Trieste. She turned her nose away from the short, tanned, but muscular young man with deep brown eyes and a smile that would knock any girl out. That was when he knew he needed to be with her, he moved closer to her, left his shoe factory for his brother to manage. He got the girl, but then he also lost the one source of income he had. It didn’t take long for news to come about how promising America was and the two of them went on another journey. They found a small storefront with an apartment on top and decided to open a coffee shop. “Those two were inseparable, my mom would make the best, smoothest coffee the city of Philly ever tasted. My dad would make the most elaborate breakfast sandwiches.” Marco would say, his eyes glistening with hope as he tells the love story of his parents.

Not long after the coffeeshop was going well, his mom got pregnant with their first baby. That’s when Marco was born, then came Geraldo, then Marta, and a baby that didn’t survive the complications during birth. “My ma almost died too, but she was too stubborn to let the big dude up there take her.” Marco is the oldest and the last of his family. His dad, brother and sister all died of brain cancer, his mother died not long after his dad, the coffee shop is now a Starbucks. “Y’know, I couldn’t make the smooth coffee that my ma would make. I can still taste it, smell it if I close my eyes. But I’m happy. I love reading, I’ve loved it since I was little boy. It’s my passion.” He says, a small tear running down his tanned cheeks.

Melody’s days at work always go by slowly, she just sits there looking at the modern chandelier and waiting for someone to ask for help. She got this job when she was in love with reading books, about three months ago, but now it is all boring. She looks at the thousands of books on the shelves and does just that stare. Her eyebrows as straight as they can be, her eyes are empty, and her mouth is almost curved downwards.

The clock finally hits five p.m., she let’s out a “hurrah!” quietly. Marco already said goodbye to her, he always leaves at 4:55 sharp. She starts to shut down all the computers, checks everything out, and turns off the lights. “See you tomorrow, I guess.” She says, as she closes the big wooden door of the library and locks it.

In the bus, she looks out the window at the city winding down. The sky is a mixture of red, pink, and yellow, she takes a picture with her Canon camera. She decides to take a detour and go towards City Hall. She gets off at Suburban station and William Penn has a background of crimson behind him. She takes out her camera, kneels on the dirty sidewalk, and takes as many pictures as she can of the view. She makes her way into City Hall, the carrousel is winding down and tourists are taking pictures of everything they see. A young woman plays the violin and an older man plays the cello for the people leaving work and rushing to get into the subway. After taking several pictures, Melody walks to South St., grabs a strawberry glazed donut, and takes the bus home.

She walks up the stairs of her building, opens the door of her apartment. The pottery wheel she bought last month is glaring at her. It almost feels like it’s telling her “You bought me and you used me once.” Everything in the small studio apartment seems to be telling her that. The hiking shoes in the linen closet, the baking supplies on top of the fridge, the shelves filled with never-read books, the crocheted curtains, the burned peace lily, the “I.C.U.P.” cross stitch, the Claire de Lune sheet music, and soon the Canon Camera will be telling her that too. Or maybe, just maybe, photography will be the one thing she sticks with. Maybe it will be the one thing she’ll always love to do. Maybe it’ll be her passion.