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The one I conjured up in my head that ignored all of the red flags and made excuses for his shitty behavior when he was late picking me up from work, left his dirty clothes all over the apartment, or when he left me alone when we should have been spending time together. This is why I’m done with boys. They are nothing but heartbreakers in skinny jeans, with eyes that make promises they aren’t willing to keep. Hard learned lessons that I am hoping will lead me to more than just midnight kisses, kisses that last all the way through till morning and never end.
As I lay on my bed, it’s the smell of decaying cardboard from the stack of albums, the sound of music filling the empty space, and the salty air of the ocean drifting in from my open window that reminds me ofUnderground Records.
And Cash.
I flip over on my stomach and pull my laptop closer. I was in the middle of editing some photos last night when I couldn’t keep my eyes open anymore. Now the sun is just barely rising, streams of light filter through my window and cast shadows across my bedroom floor, and I can’t go back to sleep.
There are hundreds of photos I took at the festival, but only one that is a mystery to me. The stormy depths of his eyes tell a story only known to him. The camera has always been able to uncover truths about the person in the photo, but also about the person who took the photo. In school we studied Dorothea Lange, and you can see pieces of her heartbreak and discontent in each of her photos. I am reminded again that the person behind the photo is just as important as the subject being captured.
Maybe what I saw in Cash that day has more to do with me than with him. What I saw was a man, lines in his face that showed a path with depths of heartache, and the shape of passion.
I am a hopeless romantic in the worst way, wanting things I shouldn’t when my heart is finally almost pieced back together again. Cash looks like the type of man who could knock the Chucks right off a girl’s feet, not to mention a few other items of clothing.
If a picture can tell a thousand words, the one I took of Cash is a novel full of stolen kisses, backstage passion, broken hearts, and the bite marks to prove it. He’s beautiful to look at on the outside with his strong jaw, soulful eyes, and broad shoulders, but I bet he is even more beautiful on the inside. I like the fact that I have all summer to slowly peel back his layers and see what’s hiding underneath, if he’ll let me.
I flip past a few photos I took of a band doing a VIP meet and greet until I get to a series I took of the crowd, which are the ones I like the most. Candid shots of ordinary people pulled from their everyday lives and into a world of rapture. The second night of the festival it rained hard, washing away the sweat and the heat. The field became muddy and people danced, spraying a mixture of mud and rain into the air. There is one photo of a man, eyes closed, lost in the moment. I wonder who he is, what kind of day job he has, if he has a family, because in this photo, he is none of those things and all of those things at once.
I’m in the middle of editing that photo when there’s a knock at my door.
“Come in.”
Grandma Jo enters my room. She’s tall, like me; a willowy figure with soft blue eyes. Her grey hair is tied up, but little pieces caress the back of her neck and frame her face. She doesn’t look like she’s in her seventies, but maybe that’s because I still see her as the same person who kissed my skinned knees when I was a kid.
“Glad that’s getting some use,” she says as she points to the record player on my floor.
“I remember when you and Grandpa John would playJohnny Cashand dance in the kitchen,” I tell her as I sit up and cross my legs. I was only a child, but I remember it so clearly. Maybe that’s why I’m a hopeless romantic… because I want to dance with someone like that in my kitchen someday.
She laughs and takes a seat on the edge of my bed, flattening the wrinkles with the palm of her hand. Arthritis prevents her from moving as gracefully as she used to, and it’s been a long time since they’ve danced anywhere.
“I didn’t disturb you, did I?” I reach down and pull the needle up, stopping the music. The room is suddenly too quiet, as if someone sucked out all the sound.
“Not at all, I’ve been up. You know me, I can’t sleep,” she answers, breaking the silence.
“Are those the pictures you took at that music show?” she asks, and I turn the laptop so she can see them better.
“Yeah.” I flip through a couple so she can see. “This one got used on the music blog promoting the festival,” I say proudly, showing her the one of the lead singer shaking his head, sweat flying from his face, his eyes staring into the crowd, hand outstretched as if he was going to take off flying.
“You know I’ve always been proud of you,” she says, and I know there is abutcoming soon. I prepare myself, closing the laptop.
“But I don’t want you getting mixed up in things that could set you off course,” she says with concern.
I know she loves me. She and Grandpa John are the only parents I’ve ever known. They had my mother later in life, and when they lost their only child, the devastation aged them. A loss like that takes from you something you can never get back. I never knew my mother, but I still feel her loss, just not in the same way they do. I don’t know what she smelled like or the feel of her hair between my fingers, or even what it would have been like to hug her.
I never knew what I was missing because I always had my grandparents to pack my lunch, attend my school plays, watch my awful ballet recitals, and to know that one of them would always be there waiting for me at the bus stop when I came home.
My grandparents are jaded because my mother’s death made them aware that a loss like that exists when most people could never fathom it. They are hyper aware and vigilant - even if they don’t mean to be.
“I’m not her,” I say, and watch as a shadow crosses her face.
“You had a goal to do photojournalism, not take pictures of musicians,” she reminds me, avoiding my comment. She never likes to talk about my mom. To her, all of that is in the past, and bringing it up pains her too much.
I had a dream to tell stories through the pictures I took, whether it be something political, social injustices, or even images of war, but sometimes goals change, and chance encounters steer you in a different direction. I’m grateful I met Erin, and maybe this wasn’t my original goal, but it has presented me with something I couldn’t dismiss.
“I haven’t lost my goals, but this was an opportunity to get my name credited as a photographer,” I try to explain to her, but when she looks at me, all she sees is my mother.
“You’re an adult but I still worry about you, Sunshine.” She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.
“I know.”
