“PHOTOGRAPH” a flash fiction short story by Mat Lo

Contemplating the infinite and the infinitesimal—a side-effect of observing an epic view, for me—would overwhelm my mind with ideas and questions, unfathomable and unanswerable. The only resolution was to submit to a state of acceptance regarding my relative insignificance.

There in front of us, sprawled across the surface of the earth were mountainous islands—some ‘private’ sized; some as big as Maui—risen from the sea for us to admire. All backlit with sunlight: refracting across the water; shimmering in the Hemlock greenery of the islands’ forest carpet. It is there we stood, my daughter and I, perched above it all, on that rock. We’d hiked for hours, enduring burning legs and sweat-stung eyes—the memory of which was dispatched by the reveal of the pleasant vista. Even my increasingly common abdominal-cramps were temporarily forgotten.

When I marvelled over a thing of immense beauty I wondered about the unseeable intricacies in each detail—the ecosystem thriving under a stone; the microbiology on a bird’s feather—then I realized that everything within my field of vision could also, from a godly vantage, be considered minutiae. I wondered if I would ever wrap my mind around that concept. The wonder of everything, and the substance of an experience like this, together with any collateral emotion, in its entirety, I thought, was surely too much to quantify.

Click. Click. Click.

My daughter snapped photos wildly.

"Wow, it’s so nice,” she said.

“Did you at least take in the view for more than a second before you got your phone out?” I asked.

“This is a prime photo-op, Dad. How can you not take a photo?”

“By living in the present moment. I don't need photos when there’s a constant display of things to admire right in front of me.”

“Well, I like to keep memories.”

I wanted to educate her about the fact that she didn’t need a solid-state-flash-drive within a communication device in order to store memories in her brain, but I refrained. She then came up beside me, pressed against me, stuck the phone in front of our faces—and with a big, childish smile, she took a photo. No permission requested; just an obligatory selfie.

She tapped away at the device.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m posting the view.”

“Why?”

“So that my friends can see.”

“If they want to see they should go out and hike."

“Well, Dad, maybe this will inspire them to do that—chill out.”

Kids and their phones—they live half their lives on them I swear. Being her father, I could have enforceably ordered her to put it away, but she did so without being told, thankfully. I’d hoped for some quality time together, free from any incumbent domestic errands—so we could get away from the city for a moment, not bring it with us in her pocket. After all, it’s not often we got to do that sort of thing, and I’d taken a day off work just for it.

We put out a blanket to sit and enjoy some snacks of fruit and sandwiches, as we faced towards the expansive ocean scape. There was the sonic backdrop of the forest behind us: chattering birds; murmuring leaves. The tender warmth of the sunlight. The atmosphere; calm and unspoiled. Little birds—Chickadees—fed on seeds from our palms. I thought: how sacred it was to hold one of God’s creatures in my hand, and nourish it. For an instant, I thought I saw my daughter as a baby once more, as I observed her cheery expression.

“Do you like it up here?" I asked.

“Yes," she said with a smile, “It’s amazing. Can we come again sometime?”

“Of course.” I replied.

It was only one month later that a doctor informed me of my fate: of cancer. It was definite, and so I didn’t hike again; I couldn’t.

Over time, all strength disappeared from my body: it took another month until there was none, until my material form was gone.

Now.

My daughter stands solemn at my grave. Her face displays an age greater than it should. Her eyes bear a weight: perhaps the sinking realization of what it truly means to be fatherless evermore. Her flesh hangs on a posture unsure, precarious, and tender with the sentient of mourning. I want to tell her I am here, but she cannot see or hear me. She places flowers by my headstone—ocean-blue Forget-Me-Nots. She removes an item from her pocket, and fixes her gaze to it. A tear drips down her face, which she hurriedly wipes away before another forms to replace it.

What she holds in her hand is a photograph, and admiring it makes her smile, forming wet dimples on her cheeks. It’s the selfie of us on that rock, posed before the infinite sea; her arm wrapped around me; her youthful smile frozen, everlasting, and documented.

She bends to place the picture on my grave, and fixes pebbles around its edges to anchor it.

“This one’s for you, Dad, for when I’m not here. So you don’t forget me… Please don’t forget me.”