They say a picture is worth a thousand words.
If so, the fingerprint covered photo I hold in my hands must be worth an entire novel. At least, that's what it seems to me. My mother, dark haired and doe-eyed, sits on a white metal bench decorated in roses. Cameron is a small shadow standing behind her, smiling shyly at the photographer. And there, standing off to the side and looking solemn, is my father. I'm not in the picture. I'm the photographer.
The doorbell rings downstairs. I want to go answer it, give Cameron a hug, and talk to him, but at the same time, I don't.
Slowly, I put the photo in my hands down on my desk, open my bedroom door, and walk down the stairs. One step at a time. One memory at a time.
I unlock the door and open it.
"Hi, Cameron."
"Hi, Naomi."
It's been a while. A long while.
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Chem and her Writer Muse
As a writer, my fingers are constantly itching for a new way to write things or a new place to put ideas. Even though I know this journal will be semi-anonymous ('cause not many people read my journal, you know?), I still like writing.
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