Pastimes

It was just an instant.  I stood there watching you weed and water, lovingly tending this small plot.  There are three of us here, four if you count the tones of the windchime that make us both think of him.  Your reflection conjures years of images of you sitting inside at the drafting table studying blueprints and drawings, bank statements and calendars, the beautiful routine rhythms of day after day, year after year.  I know this as your place of work, the interior view behind the glass.  And I know that when you tire you look up and out towards your garden to the birds that water in the bath, the flowers that will grace your table, and the deer that cross from one side of the wood to the other.   This passionate pursuit, this love of sustaining soil that runs so deeply in our family.  My reflection doesn't tell the story of mine.  It doesn't resonate with how photography saved me, or how it began, as many things do, with you.  I push the shutter and consider the finite nature of these evenings in the garden.    And that is when the glimpse of you gardening merges with me photographing, and I exhale.  It is a perfect moment; this earned pause, this breath, this reward of just being after a day of doing.

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