The birds are chirping outside my window. As I lean in to listen, I wonder what they are saying to each other. One finds cover from the morning sun under the imposing canopy of pine trees while its friends flutter above a row of boxwoods covered in straw. I wonder if they are happy, if they are aware of their beauty.
Down the street, I get a glimpse of a cat oblivious to anyone or anything as it bathes itself in the warm blanket of sunlight. Clearly it know its beauty. It all makes me ponder the language of birds, felines, canines, whales … and I want to know more.
I study an old photograph of a little boy, age 9 or 10. The photo has faded over the years, turning an odd shade of golden orange, but I remember it like it was yesterday. The velour shirt, crooked bangs, photographer-suggested pose with my fists forming the shape of a heart underneath my chin. It might not have revealed much then, but it does now. Somewhere near the frozen foods section of the old Sunflower grocery store in Richton, my mama and a traveling photographer made me feel special, even beautiful.
I can still see Mama’s grin as the shutter of the camera clicked away. It was just an ordinary day until she pushed her grocery cart of milk, eggs, bread and pork chops aside for a half-hour or so. Perhaps she was bored from the routine of her daily life. Maybe she was persuaded by the rehearsed selling pitch that included bonus wallets and a free 5-by-7. More likely, she knew I needed that moment. Like the birds outside my window, she and I played. We had our own language. I chirped; she fluttered.
It must have been fall because I remember pumpkins. Naturally, there were wardrobe changes as I modeled first with my corduroy vest, then without, hamming it up for the camera and all the familiar faces of customers, employees and Mama. Now I have that 11-by-20 canvas and a box full of various poses as a souvenir of one of the happiest days of my childhood.
I was very much like the cat bathing in the sun, caught up in its own world for a bit. I was handsome, perhaps even glorious, just being me. And like the cat, it mattered not to me if the rest of the world agreed.
The Dispatch Editorial Board is made up of publisher Peter Imes, columnist Slim Smith, managing editor Zack Plair and senior newsroom staff.
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