three images
Amanda stared in awe at the fragile history in her hands. The glass plate was black – no, a dark, dark gray – upon which the hazy white image of a house and yard was thrown into stark relief when held up to the light. She had to look at it straight on to see all of the details: the fine etched lines of the sash windows, wide door and scalloped trim; the sharp blades of grass and crisp leaves of the trees; the billowing smoke from the brick chimney. Just a slight tilt – to the left or right, up or down – and the delicate old fashioned architecture would be rendered indistinct, as lost as the art of designing such a home in these stream-lined times. As always, Amanda was amazed that Joshua would allow her to handle such a precious piece of his family’s past. This was the first photo ever taken of the home in which he was raised, as were his ancestors over the last two centuries. It was a testament to the level of trust he still had in her, even after their own tumultuous history, so aptly mirrored by the raging storm outside.
She replaced the glass on its protective foam base and locked it in the acrylic case, next to the other plates from the previous century, then walked to the window and pulled aside the curtain, looking out into the night. It was a violent storm that attacked this little community on the Eastern seaboard. Driving rain, gale-force winds pushing the clouds across the sky, the full moon winking in and out – these were frightening enough, but it was the ocean that scared Amanda more. Choppy, pointed midnight blue waves flickered in intermittent moonlight, the white foam caps giving the appearance of the mouths of rabid dogs. Fierce, mad, dangerous, they seemed ready to leap over the pleasure boat docks, past the shore, eager to reach into Joshua’s summer home and sweep her out to sea. She could almost swear the water was sentient and vengeful. Even with the lure of the photographic plates, she still didn’t know why she agreed to meet Joshua here instead of his nice, safe apartment in the city.
The doorbell rang. She ran to the door and peered out the peephole, seeing the distorted face of her soon-to-be ex-husband, water dripping from his out-dated yellow rain hat. Amanda flung open the door, moving as if to pull him into the safety of his home, but was stopped at the sight of him. Or, more specifically, at the immense, sopping bouquet in his hands. Flowers exploded from the delicate clear vase, a riot of pinks and yellows and oranges tempered by the cool greens of the leafy foliage, a shot of white and pale yellow baby’s breath lending an air of purity to the raw sensuality of the blooms. Orchids and peonies, lilies and daffodils, all stunning in their simple, extravagant, fragrant beauty. The vitality of new spring and bright summer poured from their pistils and petals and thick stems. She was stunned, but remembered to move back to let Joshua out of the rain, closing the door behind him. His bright yellow rubber galoshes and rain slicker squeaked as he got down on one knee and looked up at her under the ridiculous yellow rubber hat brim, the flowers tickling his stubbled chin.
“Amanda, will you stay married to me?”
She felt light-headed as thoughts raced and whirled and she sat heavily in the growing puddle in front of him, but there was only one answer to his question.
“Yes.”
