A picture may be
worth a thousand words,
but it seldom tells
the whole story.
On July 1st
Mary Denman arrives. For twenty-one years I’ve avoided professional pictures,
but now I need head shots—for a radio interview, for business cards, for a blog.
I apologize in advance and warn Mary this might be hard.
Hard because I don’t
photograph well. Because I’ve never figured out how to pose. Because nothing
about “say cheese” comes natural to me. Because, after four years of braces, my
lower jaw decided to grow and when I smile big it sticks out and, as my son
says, my eyes “go Chinese.”
Mary smiles and tells
me to relax. “I’ll get the pictures you need,” she says. “Plus a couple for
your husband to put on his desk.”
I keep secret the
main reason I’ve dreaded today, however, although I think Mary might know. My
daughter, Jenna, should be a high school senior. Mary ought to be photographing
her.
I imagine Jenna
standing in my place. Smiling. Posing. Radiant. Glowing. Instead, it’s me who’s
left, with a story I wish I had no reason to share. The twisting in my gut
reminds me of how much I hate suicide.
Mary suggests we
start outside on the back patio. She motions to a bench, and I sit. She puts me
at ease, snaps away, speaks kind words. But I can feel my forced smile, my dull
eyes, and I’m sure that even the most gifted photographer can’t capture joy
that isn’t there.
Next we move to the
steps. They’re marked with my husband’s footprints and coated in South
Carolina’s staining red clay. I sit against the twisted-iron rail anyway.
“Just be yourself,”
Mary says. I loosen up and lean back. The railing wobbles. It’s broken, so I
smile—a genuine grin—picturing what the photo would look like if it were to
give. Mary captures the moment.
Afterwards, following
a quick change of clothes, Mary motions me to the opposite sun-rotten bench. As
I sit, I remember being in the same place nearly three years ago.
“Jenna,” I’d called,
“could you take a picture for me?”
Gently I placed my
new Nikon in her hands, slung the strap around her neck, showed her how to
auto-focus the camera. I smiled at her, my effervescent 14-year-old girl, while
she pressed the button.
“I’ve taken three,
Mom. Is that enough?”
