An Instant

The snapping of an aperture.

The blinding flood of light.

That one second in time is gone, but it will always be remembered. 

Think about that.

Nothing is permanent, it can only be documented.

A lady jogging, ipod strapped to her arm, head cocked to one side. Maybe she'll quit exercise tomorrow.

A baby being born, the blood, screaming, and sheer joy. They are reminiscent and fresh in every parent's memory, yet only a picture can describe exactly what life was at that moment. 

An old man laughing; perhaps, for the last time.

Click.

I lived in the slums. 

There was no running water, no supermarket, smiles, or sadness.

Only survival. 

Life in that part of town was not life.

Even when I tried to look at the blooming lilies, their beauty escaped me.

Even the slim, buxom, or curvy woman's grace and lustful elegance seemed to dip quickly from my psyche. 

Not water, nor food; birds or stars would fancy my eye.

Why?

Because my children wouldn't see it, and I wouldn't see it again.

It was lost in time.

We're all lost in time.

There was an old man that lived not far from me, in the alleyway across and back from my flat.

He didn't have a name.

When I first asked him, he smiled toothlessly, and said, "Em names show ownership. Don belong to nobody, now, I guess."

He always wore a crimson scarf. It was the brightest crimson I had ever seen.

I was the brightest color, the only color, I had seen in my years here.

Or maybe in all my years.

I honestly can't remember.

He took pictures. 

Wonderful pictures.

He found beauty in my trash, in dirt, and spiders, and spoiled milk. 

He was in awe of crumpled notebook paper, rubber bands, and pizza boxes.

I would have never looked twice at these things.

Yet, somehow those pictures were the most amazing, wonderous, beautiful thing I'd ever seen.

One day, he gave me his camera. It was an old one, probably from the beginning of the camera. 

He told me this.

Everthing is temporary.

Them leaves grow from nothin to crisp and green and ripe, then they die and crumple and get yellow. Then it starts over again. We can't be too upset about things we can't change. Like the dyin of leaves and human and whatnot. We can change how we remember them. That's why there's this.

He handed me the camera.

As he walked down that alley for the last time, I held the crumbling frame up to my face, and snapped a shot of him from the back. Weeks later, after the film was developed, he was not in the picture.

After taking my first picture, I whirled around to see a world bursting with color and life.

But only for an instant.

Click.