D70 - 24mm, 3 sec f/16, ISO 200 My hair was longer back then, and in the early morning breeze it caught around my nose and eye lashes. His black waves seemed to be handling it better. It seems odd to me now, but the first thing I fell in love with was his hair: soft, smooth and in control.
Climbing down the stairs that were built into the sandstone, we walked through the field in silence, content to enjoy the spring sun. He reached out for my hand and I let him take it; I'm still not sure why. When he smiled at me, I became motionless in black and white: a perfect memory until we came upon the crashing waterfall. The drops dove from the top of the rock into the stream below as if they knew there was no other fate. I pulled out the awkward and large camera from my bag. Later, he would tell me that picture looked like a postcard.
As his long legs carried him next to the soft spoken stream, I tried to tame his body language through my photographs: the way he leaned to see into the water and tilted his head to stare up at the stone. He called for me to keep up. I noticed the water had torn away at so much of the dirt and rock that I wondered how many more years would pass before the stream no longer wound its way lazily to the
He stepped onto the sand and bent over making shapes and faces in it. I fixed the focus on my camera insecurely and planned out what part of the stream I wanted. He knew I wanted more: pictures, memories, the stream. He smiled and waited, holding the stiff pose. "Take the picture," he said flatly through his teeth. I paused for a moment, surprised by his tone. As I heard the snap of the camera, I noticed how loud the water had become. It was less of a murmur now and more of a scream that ran through my body. It ripped down stream to its destination, unaware of the damage it was causing. The massive rock loomed behind us.
As we climbed the sandstone steps again, I grabbed my wild hair at the back of my neck and resolved to cut it.
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