Shutter: A Reflection

The quiet click of the shutter rings out through the field, but luckily the doe doesn’t seem bothered. All the local animals seem to have emerged from their hiding spots this evening to meander about in search of morsels. A few squirrels are chasing each other through the trees. Whether they’re fighting or frolicking is not very clear, but they appear to be having fun. There have also been a few birds who have stopped by; they always disappear when I point the camera at them, but someday I’ll get one. The main character of the moment, however, is the lovely lady about twenty feet in front of me, oblivious to my existence.

Another click of the shutter. I should really look into getting a camera that isn’t this noisy. I’ve been lucky so far; other times my location has been given away by a noisy twig underneath my foot, or a breath that was ever so slightly too loud. Somehow, despite it being louder than the aforementioned noises, the camera has yet to betray me tonight. I haven’t even seen a flick of an ear from the doe, no sign that she knows I’m here. She just continues to graze on the greenery under her hooves, without a care in the world. How lucky.

Another click of the shutter. I haven’t looked at my camera roll yet tonight. I generally try not to while out in the field. The picture limit is my own limit: the little light at the top left of the screen is my sign to head home. I know if I look prematurely I’ll only be able to focus on the missing elements. The lack of movement in the pictures only strengthens the lack of hue, the monotony that has slowly overtaken almost every aspect of my life.

I’ve tried every trick under the sun to bring them back, the colors. I miss them more than I could ever put into words. If I try, I can kinda imagine how they used to feel, how we used to feel, the blue salty waves that pushed you into me as we laughed at the sand in our hair. A deep vibrant blue; one that has faded further and further with each time that I’ve revisited us. The golden sand that now just registers as a murky platinum. Your face, pale and gray. 

Another click of the shutter. I can feel the memories resurfacing as I’m fiddling with the focus of the lens. I try not to think of that night anymore, but it continuously pushes its way through my thoughts like we pushed through those waves, as ignorant to my pain as they were to ours. 

It hurts knowing we didn’t do anything wrong. We checked the forecast, checked the websites – hell, I even asked the lifeguard when the tide was expected. How could we know that he would be wrong, that the water would pick us up and crash down so viciously? You always played it safer than I did, yet you were the one who paid the majority of the price. I only got the tip in comparison.

Another click of the shutter. It’s become a habit at this point, the shutter rhythmic and soothing as my mind flounders, searching for anything to focus on but those moments. The wet, the panic, the blinding lights of the hospital and the overwhelming noise of the many medical instruments and panicking doctors, mostly on your side of the curtain. The memory never really appears in full, just in segments. The doctors said this was likely due to my head hitting the sea floor like it did, but they were adamant that the memories would come back eventually. They were constantly trying to jog the memory for that first week, but as the machines quieted down, so did they. 

My therapist thinks it’s a blessing, a good thing, that I can’t remember it all at once. How she can categorize anything about that experience as good I don’t understand, but it’s easier to smile and nod than question at this point. She always talks about my “improvement” and how I’m “making progress,” but it feels fake. I don’t know how to describe it, it just feels wrong. How could I possibly be improving if you’re fading from my memories?

Another click of the shutter. I like to think this doe is the color of your eyes, that warm brown I miss so much. I hope she never has to experience the red that yours did, crimson woven through the white like a piece of red string. Like those used in that mythology you always talked about, those Fate ladies that you could (and would) talk about for hours on end. Your eyes lit up when you talked about them. Even with the color fading from my memories, I can still see that clear as day. I try to remember you like that, happy, vibrant, alive.

I wish I had paid more attention to those stories, to you, to the everyday things that I never thought I’d lose. It’s like what’s-her-name, that singer with that song you always hummed under your breath, “you don’t know what you’ve got ‘til it’s gone.” They never tell you how much it hurts to wake up a week later and notice that colors are dimmer, like one of those filters from Snapchat. They never tell you how much more it hurts to have that happen more and more every single day, until everything is a similar shade of loss (the doctors said it’s some form of grayish-green. I couldn’t tell you if they were right).

That’s why I try not to look at the camera before it’s full. It doesn’t capture the full moment; at least not to me. It doesn’t capture the sound of what I see before me, the sounds of the squirrels chattering at each other, or the birds singing, or even the near-silent chewing of the doe. It doesn’t capture the feel of the wind rustling through my sandless hair, of my feet firmly planted on the ground. It doesn’t capture the taste of salt from standing in this heat for hours with no cooling reprieve, the slight tinge of blood from chewing on my cheek as I adjust my camera angle, trying to figure out the best plan of action. The one thing that camera captures is the missing element of my life, for someone else to someday enjoy while I reminisce.

Shit. Time to return to reality. I don’t have that much space left in the roll, and the sun’s setting so I should probably wrap this up. As I look up from adjusting my camera, I find myself making eye contact with the doe, who is a lot closer now than she had been before. Both of us jump back a bit and freeze. I don’t want to scare her further and judging from her lifted front leg that’s frozen in midair, she’s planning to run away any minute now. Fuck it, I’m not getting a picture of this, might as well enjoy it. 

We’re just standing there, staring at each other. If I’m being honest, I’m slightly surprised that she seems okay with the eye contact we’re making, though it could just be a freeze response kicking in. Looking into her eyes, I can’t exactly decipher any feeling, except for just calm. It’s almost calming me down, in a way. She’s even more beautiful up close, her eyes seeming like a similar shade to what I remember yours being. Staring into them, and seeing them move microscopically, feels like looking into yours when we tried to plan out our anniversary. When I was trying to focus, as my brain ran amok with non-stop ideas, and you were just watching me, waiting for a break in my rambling so you could somehow suggest a perfect idea. 

“What about a day at the beach?” 

I can feel my eyes watering at the memory, and the urge to blink is too strong. With the closing of my eyes, the connection is cut, and the doe sprints away, leaving me in the field with tears falling down my face. Somehow, though, I feel slightly happy, like something has been lifted off of my shoulders. 

I knew it was a good idea to come to the field today. I knew the pull I felt today was extra strong. Like it was Fate. 

Happy anniversary, Jane. I hope the sunset is even more brilliant from up there.