A moment in time captured in a flash of light. Five figures stand facing the camera. They are standing in front of a ’58 Buick, and in the background you can see a tree outlined against a clear sky. The whole scene is presented in shades of gray. The people are smiling, happy, eager to go for their first drive together in the new car.
The father is wearing his good suit, the hat on his head tilted slightly back on his head. He has dark hair and a bright smile. He has already taught his oldest child the basics of chess, and they play on weekends; mostly he lets the kid win.
The mother is wearing a sundress. Though the colors don’t show in the black and white photograph, the dress is yellow, spotted with blue flowers. She is wearing a wide hat that covers her brown hair. She uses a shampoo that makes her hair smell like apples.
The oldest child is the boy who plays chess with his father on weekends. His hair is cut short, and he is squinting one eye slightly against the glare of the sun. He is nine years old. He knows that his father lets him win at chess, and he is grateful. Sometimes they play out on the front porch, and his mother makes a pitcher of ice cold lemonade. He loves them both so much that it fills him up.
The next child is a girl, three years younger than the boy. She wears a hat that looks just like her mother’s, but with a shorter brim. A unique feature about her--not discernible in the photograph--are her blue eyes. Both parents, as well as her brothers, have chocolate-brown eyes. Her maternal grandmother had the same deep blue eyes. She is wearing a frilly dress, and short white gloves on her hands. She looks like a proper little lady. She once buried a box with a silver locket in it in the backyard; it will not be found for another fifteen years, by another daughter, of a different family. Inside the locket there are two pictures--one of her, and one of her mother as a young girl.
Then there’s the youngest, a boy, two years old. He stands on unsure legs, one hand holding onto his mother’s dress. One of his favorite phrases is “me milk”, said when he is thirsty. He is wearing a pair of overalls, the denim legs only coming halfway down is chubby calves. His hair is a wispy, dark blond.
They are all smiling. They are about to get into the car, to go for a drive. Aunt Helen, who is behind the camera, will wave to them as they pull out of the driveway. They will drive on until they get to Rt. 204, where they will make a right before continuing on. The oldest child--sharing the backseat with his sister--will tell the father to go “Faster! Faster!”. The father will eventually oblige, edging past sixty, then sixty-five, but no faster than that; a look from his wife warns him not to push it too far. The toddler will babble from his perch atop the mother’s lap, as the mother makes a futile attempt to smooth down his hair. The daughter will stare out the window at the passing flatlands, one arm hanging out the window, her hand catching the wind. She will not see the car in the opposing lane as it grows closer. She will not see it as it swerves suddenly into their lane. She will not feel the impact.
When the police come upon the scene they find the mother and father pinned in the front seat of the car; the father is dead, but the mother will live for another twenty minutes, asking for her children. The daughter is found in the back seat, as dead as her father. The youngest won’t be found for another three hours, having been ejected from the vehicle and thrown into some tall grass. They will never be sure if he died on impact, or if he was alive for a while after the crash. The driver of the other car (and it’s only passenger) is found lying in the street, thrown free of his vehicle and looking like a discarded ragdoll.
The only life left after the impact belongs to the oldest child, the boy who once played chess with his father on the weekends while sipping his mother’s lemonade, the kid who would sometimes sneak a whiff of his mother’s hair, that scent of apples. It will be three months before he can walk again; more than a year before he can walk without crutches. He will leave the house he grew up in and will live with his Aunt Helen and Uncle Ed. They will be good to him, and in time he will have that same big love for them that he had for his own parents.
And now that boy who is no longer a boy puts the photograph back in the box where he keeps it, and puts the box into the bottom drawer of his dresser. He moves to the window and stares out at the still night. One of the grandkids lets out a throaty laugh downstairs. Soon he will go back down and join his family. Right now, though, he thinks back to another place and another time. It’s something he has found himself doing more often lately. Maybe it has something to do with getting older and facing his own mortality (again); he’s not sure. Sometimes, if he tries real hard, he can still remember the smell of apples in is mother’s hair.