Picture Perfect

By Lynnette Horn

Some cultures believe a camera can capture a person's spirit.  While I don't count myself among any such culture, I found myself fussing and fretting over my granddaughter on her first school picture day. I chose her clothes with care and took extra time to iron every wrinkle.  As she washed her hands and face, I watched over her with an eagle eye to insure nothing of lunch remained where it shouldn't. And then, armed with brush and curling iron, I tamed her wisps of baby fine hair into submission. I so wanted her picture to be perfect.

Amelia was also anxious. She practiced smiles and poses in front of the mirror, trying to find just the right look for the camera.  Secretly, I watched from the doorway not wanting her to see my concern. Something inside me wanted to protect her from the camera's brutal eye. But what would the camera see?

Would it detect the pain of losing her father lurking just below the surface--a pain that threatened to break out in heart wrenching gushes when I least expected it?  Would it capture the weight of bitterness carried upon her frail shoulders over the crumbling of her family? At the fresh age of five she shouldn't have to deal with all that she has. It seemed a further injustice for the camera to betray any of her grief.  I didn't want it to capture anything but her sweet, innocent smile.

I inspected her from all angles, close up and distant, sideways and straight on.  Outwardly, she looked as normal as the next kindergartner. Still I wondered if traces of her fractured spirit were written on her face that only she could see. Looking back at this photo when she is grown will she see a hint of sadness around the eyes or a smidgen of anger knitted between her brows? I pray it will only reveal the picture perfect life she lead with Papa and Nana.