The day
begins with me alone on a front porch swing, taking the time to savor the
morning stillness before anyone else awakens.
Yesterday right after dawn, I donned
my tennis shoes, hung the Canon around my neck, and made a short hike down the road
to a gate that guarded river access. I spied a trellis heavy with grapevines;
its fruit long lost to birds. Moving cautiously downward, I found a clearing
where water shallowly pooled. Snapping pictures, I captured sunlight and water—rocks
hidden under a rising mist.
I tiptoed across a natural bridge of
stepping stones, attending to each one to make certain my feet found purchase as
I made my way across the moss slickened steps. Trying to gather morning’s essence,
I hunkered down on a ledge to change angles, finding beauty from east to west.
I dangled my camera around my neck,
its heavy weight bumping against my chest, and its weight reminded me to take
care. But a loose and slippery rock foiled my sensible shoes and snail pace,
catapulting me into a cartwheel. Instinct snapped into place, and I caught the
camera before it plopped into the water. Who cares about a bruised hip,
battered shoulder or bumped head? My hands cradled my camera as my head bounced
a second time. Like a mother who’s swept in to pull her child away from
catastrophe, I checked my “baby” for damage as I swiped at the lens and casing
with a dry corner of my shirt. Reassured that water hadn’t seeped beyond its
hardened shell, I powered it down and began to laugh.
Water trickled down the right side
of my body and my right shoe squished as I made my way further up the bank,
pulling away from the river’s edge. For a second, my blurred vision worried me.
Had I hit my head that hard? And then I realized that my glasses lay somewhere
behind me. Half-blind and half-drenched, I searched my way back down the path—hoping
my glasses had tumbled onto the ground when I took off my light jacket—fearing
that they lay under water.
I backtracked onto the spit of
rocks, avoiding the one that spilled me into the water; and began to patty cake
the cool surface, squinting in an attempt to sharpen my vision. My fingers
found my frames before my eyes, and I plucked them gratefully from their hiding
place under a large leaf.
My mishap meant I meandered around
the water’s edge with wet pants and a soggy shoe as I preserved wild flowers
blooming one last time before the coming of Fall.
Copyright 2014 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman
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