I pick up my phone. It’s already set to take a photo. I half-watch the scene I want to capture come into view and half-watch my muddy descent over embedded rocks, careful not to slip. All around me, oversized water drops fall from the slouching boughs of evergreen trees, wrapped in Grinch-colored moss and lichen. The sun is shining, and something about the distance—my vantage point of my dad, daughter, and husband on the path below—and the light, the falling drops, the thick green blankets of forest, I hope will translate to the screen.
It falls short.
And in the space where the moment was—majestic, alive—sadness rushes in. The lens through which I now look at the photo, even as I continue carefully placing my feet, is a solemn one. There’s a longing, I think, for permanence beyond a photograph. That my dad will always be on the trail with us, carrying fist-sized rocks for Evelyn. That my body’s aliveness and health will never fail. That Evelyn’s playful imagination—turning a branch into a fishing pole I hold for her the entire hour-long stroll—will never dim.
I feel my heart. It’s a tunnel extending forward, a spotlight searching the sky, feeding on aliveness. On alertness. On witnessing.
I grieve.
I celebrate.
I relax.
It’s December 24th.
Happy Christmas Eve.
Going On 40 