Twice I've taken pictures that made me cry. (I've seen quite a few pictures that have brought a tear to my eye, but twice I've been the one holding the camera.)
The first time was almost 2 years ago and it's one of the moments that planted the passion in me. I immediately saw the story. The story began when he was called to duty and ended when our eyes met through the camera. That story should be written. I connected deeply and immediately to that tiny moment.
Months later I tracked down Mr. Rogers (no, really), gave him a copy of this picture, and he (and his lovely wife) gave me a tour of their home (one of the oldest in our town). He has warm eyes and warm hands. He has stories to tell. I keep thinking of going back. To ask questions I never asked my own grandparents.
Mr Rogers has been in every Memorial Day parade since he returned from the war. Each year he has worn the same uniform.
The second one happened today.
I expect it might not make sense to many people. That's ok with me.
From time to time to time to time I get wrapped up in what I'm not doing. What can't be done. What should be done. It tangles me up. Hard. Stupid things start to weigh more in the scale of life. I fret. I remain still (but not in the good way).
So today this picture told me a story of hope and possibility and promise and openness and understanding and forgiveness.
Or I am just nuts.
Oh, and I am reading the manual. It is complicated crap, but this camera can perform exorcisms. I expect.