Viewfinder

by Janine Phillips

There you were
shuttered behind your darkroom door,
just a gentle click away as you latched the lock,
making positives from my negatives.
Furiously typing the day’s truths,
I’d wait until you’d call my name,
and then I’d come.
Cradled in your hands,
the world through my lens,
snips of life preserved in
black and white forever.
Sometimes we’d lock eyes
across the newsroom floor,
sometimes we’d pass in the lunchroom,
awkward pauses as we clutched our brown bags.
When you weren’t processing,
your door was always open;
my journalistic eye taking in the minute detail
of your bohemian rapture.
Black ringlets framing your face,
studious specs propped on the bridge of your nose,
so nerdy and serious, and . . . something else.
On assignment, we flew over the East End
crammed into the board president’s Piper,
dipping and soaring along the seashore.
That bright, sunny Long Island day was anything but cliché.
I watched you point and shoot,
capturing the coast in Kodachrome.
We stopped for lunch
and over an order of French fries
our fingertips touched as
we shared otherwise unspoken sadness.
She’d wear her leather skirt so tight and went out alone every Friday night.
He’d work long days and weekends. And played golf past daylight.
And then we leaned close,
so close I could count the worry lines etched around your eyes,
and without words we answered that age-old question.
I remember the flight back,
how the engine droned,
how small everyday life looked below,
how snug the headset fit over my ears,
and how gentle, how wise, your voice sounded
above it all.