Marit Quist Corbett
At the moment I enter the downtown photo store, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I check, because this is an important day: the day my latest grandchild will be born.
I’m trying to fill the time while waiting for news. And there it is…“We’re in the operating room! It’s getting real!”
The expectant parents, swathed in yellow gowns and caps stare at the lens, a tentative smile on their faces. As far as I know, everything is under control. A planned Caesarean section. A surgeon they both trust. I’ll have a couple of hours to do what I came to do, printing some photos for them of the time before children, their wedding (so modest in the time of COVID-19), their adventurous life together, and the early days of pregnancy.
The store has three machines that can instantly print your shots. At least, that is the theory. Today, two of them are out of order. These beasts are delicate and temperamental.
I line up behind a couple of youngish guys in shorts who are printing photos of their holiday, or maybe a night on the town. They’re laughing at memories, pointing out silly poses.
Behind me, there are a few more people anxious to do their work. An older woman, dressed in tights and a swanky shirt I envy, and a mother holding a small child by the hand. They have their USB sticks or phone in hand, ready to print.
The two guys finalize their choice of pictures, getting the size, the lighting, and the balance just right. Finally, they step away, happily flipping through the photos of sun and fun – and then it’s my turn.
I drop my bag beside the machine, plug in my USB and start going through the files – reams and reams of memories, choosing sizes and quantities. This one? The one where they’re looking into each others’ eyes? Or the one beside the lake, where they beam at the camera, tired and tanned? Should I crop? Enhance? Rotate? So many choices!
While making my decisions, I keep an eye on my phone. Has it happened yet? The chat is silent. Nothing yet.
I continue to edit, aware at the same time that the older woman behind me is gently making her presence known. There’s something about the air pressing up against your back, your neck prickling with tiny insistent stabs – you just know there’s someone in a hurry behind you. I turn around, apologetically.
“I’m sorry,” I say, acting the perfect Canadian yet also showing my excitement. I’m convinced that, of all the people here today, I have the most interesting reason for being there.
“I’m just trying to get these photos printed for my kids. They’re having a baby today. They’re at the hospital now.”
I anticipate a sympathetic response. Some joy. Some curiosity. And then comes her answer, delivered simply and without the emotion it might merit. It blows me away.
“It’s OK,” she says. “It’s just that I’m on my way to my husband’s funeral and we haven’t got the pictures for the display printed. I thought someone was in charge of that, but apparently we had some wires crossed.”
I don’t know whether she feels the calm she projects. How can she say these words, so devastating, in such a matter of fact way? I search her face, and find her grey eyes steady and sad.
My work is done and I step back to let her pass. She moves forward to instruct the machine. I imagine her poring over albums or files, selecting the picture that most accurately captures the image she wants to retain, the one she wants others to see. She busies herself at the machine, plugging in the USB, clicking and adjusting.
People around us have taken notice. There are a few more customers waiting now. They, the store owners, and the staff are all aware of the little drama being played out on this stage.
The machine begins whirring, a sign that the picture is being printed. As soon as it pops out of the slot and drops into the catch basin, the woman picks it up and shows it to us.
“This is my husband.”
The photograph shows the profile of a smiling man, perhaps in his late fifties. He’s full of life and full of joy, and his eyes are kind. We tell her it’s a beautiful photograph. We tell her he looks so kind.
She nods and walks over to the cash to pay. I do the same.
At the door we say goodbye, wishing each other well. She, preparing to say farewell to a life-long companion. And me, preparing to welcome a new human into this world.