Saturday, April 24, 2010
Sheree and I got up at 4:00 IN THE MORNING.
She wanted to capture a sunrise. I, on the other hand, longed to point out that sunrises happen pretty much every day and that I saw no reason to drag my lazy butt out of a warm comfortable bed for this particular one.
The conclusion, to no one’s surprise was never in doubt. My lazy butt was in the shower and then we were in the car with Sheree chirping on about how GREAT it was going to be to watch the sun come up and how we were going to find the PERFECT place to photograph it from. Her optimism grated on my jagged disposition.
I tried not to sigh too loud, sipping coffee and praying that God would just take me now.
The morning eventually took us to a field of flowers (big surprise) and so there I stood feeling foul(er), glaring at the flowers and their fricking happy colors and apparent inability to understand that sometimes the day just sucks.
Then I saw this little flower in a direct beam of light.
“Hey…over here you floral Luddite,” it whispered.
I ignored it because it is patently obvious to any thinking being that flowers can’t talk.
“Pssssst,” it hissed.
I chanced a glance that way and saw it gently moving in the breeze in a decidedly “come hither” fashion.
“C’mon,” it whispered. “Admit it. I’m pretty. You KNOW I am.”
I snorted. Again.
“Look. It’ll be just between the two of us,” the persuasive petals posited. “You can tell people you ripped me out of the ground after you took my picture. It’s okay. I won’t tell.”
I felt myself wavering. But my testosterone kicked in and, as I considered actually WANTING to take a picture of a fricking flower, my resolve hardened.
“Hey, Daaaaaviiiiddd….take my picture. You know all the other photographers are doing it. C’mon. How can one little picture hurt? Just so you’ll know what it’s like.”
“I’ve taken pictures of flowers before,” I said in my best make-my-day-you-punk-flower growl. “I just never liked it much.”
I raised my camera and took a picture of a stoooopid bench. The picture sucked, but at least it wasn’t a fricking flower.
I concentrated all my attention on trying to turn the image of the bench into something decent. Time passed pleasantly.
Then I heard a soft floral sob from somewhere behind me.
I looked around. Sheree was happily and unselfconsciously intent on photographing a fricking flower some distance away. I peeked back at the yellow flower…and something that looked like dew ran a tragic wet course down its petals. The sound of inconsolable floral grief.
“Knock it off,” I hissed. “I refuse to surrender to a flower.”
It said nothing, simply turning a fraction of an angle toward the sun, which only served to highlight the wetness now running freely down its petals.
I took another shot of the bench. Stoooopid bench.
I turned and looked and saw the yellow flower shining bright in a perfect ray of light.
The flower caught me looking and instantly stopped sobbing. It looked as hopeful as a little flower can look.
“Take my picture,” it pleaded.
I didn’t say anything.
“C’mon. Take my picture. Why not? I’m pretty. Pretty is what I am all about. It’s what I’m for. So why not take a picture? C’mooooon.”
I looked around me. No one anywhere near. No one to see.
“In a few weeks I am going to be all crusty and dried up. Now…I’m beautiful. Take my picture, okay? Justonelittlepictureandyoudon’tevenhavetoenjoyit.”
I crept over and raised my camera. The flower perked right up, smoothing its petals and turning its most flattering angle toward me.
I raised the camera. My hand was shaking. I took the picture.
I think it smiled at me as I took the shot.