After searching for years, she finally found
the perfect shot. She didn’t really know what she
was looking for —closure, or maybe just a connection
to the life she had left behind when she moved
away. But at last, the church she had been looking
for was there, in front of her. It was exactly how she
envisioned it—white walls with a little bit of yellow
from all those years of sun, bell towers that seemed
to reach the sky, and an arched doorway standing
open like it was waiting for her.
She lifted the old camera, her most treasured gift
from her mother, framing the church in
the shot. As she adjusted the focus, through the
lens, she saw a little girl with curled hair in a white
dress. She gasped as she recognized the young girl
right away: it was her, but many years ago.
She was standing in the courtyard surrounded
by her family. In one hand she carried a
Bible, and in the other a light pink rosary. It was
her First Communion; she seemed
nervous, but also excited. The sun was
shining on her face; a gold cross hanging from her
neck reflecting the sun shining into the camera.
Her lips looked shiny; her nails were painted pink.
The photographer remembered the tight
shoes squishing her feet, and her mother’s proud
smile. She remembered the feeling of butterflies in
her stomach when she made her mother proud.
Click. She took a photo as her mom kissed
the little girl on the cheek.
When she checked the photo on the
screen, no one was in it; the girl and her mom
were gone. Confused, she adjusted the camera
again, and this time saw two people through the
lens. There was a woman in white, her face hiding
behind a bridal veil; it was her wedding day. Next to
her, a man – her father – stood beside her, hugging
her as proud tears ran down his face.
The photographer recognized herself
again. Inside the church, waiting at the altar, was
Pablo, the man she vowed to love forever. Her
father looked healthier than she remembered him
in his final days. The church bells rang; her dad
kissed her on the forehead.
Click. She tried again to capture the image,
looking at her photo, the bride and her father had
both disappeared.
She looked away and blinked, shaking her
head. No one was there, and the courtyard was
empty.
When she looked through the camera
again, she saw people inside the church, sitting in
silence, dressed in black, holding a box of tissues.
A black and white portrait rested near the altar,
surrounded by candles and flowers. She zoomed in,
trying to see better who occupied the portrait. The
picture was of a woman with familiar eyes, familiar
facial expressions, and a familiar smile.
Shocked and overwhelmed, she put the
camera down, her heart pounding. But again, the
church stood still and empty. There was no girl, no
bride, no funeral. It was just her and her camera.
She took a deep breath, lifted the camera one more time,
but this time pointed it back toward the empty courtyard.
She pressed down on the shutter and captured the tranquil
scene. Looking at the photograph, she remembered and
understood.
Perhaps the perfect photo wasn’t about capturing
a specific moment, but about accepting it. The
church was not just a place where she had been before.
It was a witness to the life that she had already
lived and it would witness lives for years to come.
The church would still be standing long after she was
gone, holding memories in its tall white walls.