Somehow reawakened, a time-worn photo slides out of a dark crevice in my rolltop desk. Twenty years ago, the tattered glossy fell—no, I pushed it—into the hidden tabernacle, laying to rest an unearthly mystery that could never be solved. Until now.
###
Long ago, a Polaroid camera gave life to the glossy at the Grand Canyon, when I snapped a midnight photo of a star-dotted August sky. A Perseid meteorite streaked the heavens, as though the Polaroid’s ‘click’ signaled a supernatural event.
Andy stood beside me that night in cargo shorts and an XXXL T-shirt. Yet the damp glossy showed him on the other side of the overlook railing, where the meteorite had run its life’s course. In the glossy, Big Andy looked rugged in his striped referee’s jersey and cap. But shining through were the wry smile, thoughtful tilt of the head, and starry eyes that conveyed, ‘Love you, Mom.’ Raised skyward was the arm that wore his time keeper’s watch; the spirited referee in Andy was making a fateful call.
We flew home the next morning, and the phone rang in our San Diego apartment when the key’s ‘click’ opened the dead bolt lock.
“Who was it?” I said, the clothes washer loaded.
“My cardiologist.”
“Aaaand?”
“It’s never good news, Mom, when the cardiologist herself calls.”
###
I lean the photo against the phone on the rolltop desk and daydream in wonderment at the Grand Canyon mystery that has lain dormant for so long. Then, suddenly, the phone disturbs my reverie with a thunderous ring that rivals the blast of St. Gabriel’s trumpet. The furious vibrations thrum life back into the photo, each ring a heartbeat. The photo—can it be?—begins to transform with each ominous ring, as my heart pumps in time with the summons of St. Gabriel.
In the photo now, a worn woman I barely recognize settles into Andy’s brawny embrace. Atop her gray head he fashions the sweaty cap—the Big Man’s idea of a tiara. Marking the time, Andy checks his referee’s watch.
The phone’s blood-red call indicator flashes ‘Cardiologist,’ and its ringing courses through my veins. But why answer?
A tear blots the photo in my tremoring hand as a broken heart climbs into my throat. When a throbbing knot tightens in my chest, I lunge for the raging phone.
Yes, it’s time to settle up with Fate—and to answer the call. At last. As I reach across space and time, my fist tightens too and, like the two fists in the photo, rises triumphantly to the heavens.
###
Long ago, a Polaroid camera gave life to the glossy at the Grand Canyon, when I snapped a midnight photo of a star-dotted August sky. A Perseid meteorite streaked the heavens, as though the Polaroid’s ‘click’ signaled a supernatural event.
Andy stood beside me that night in cargo shorts and an XXXL T-shirt. Yet the damp glossy showed him on the other side of the overlook railing, where the meteorite had run its life’s course. In the glossy, Big Andy looked rugged in his striped referee’s jersey and cap. But shining through were the wry smile, thoughtful tilt of the head, and starry eyes that conveyed, ‘Love you, Mom.’ Raised skyward was the arm that wore his time keeper’s watch; the spirited referee in Andy was making a fateful call.
We flew home the next morning, and the phone rang in our San Diego apartment when the key’s ‘click’ opened the dead bolt lock.
“Who was it?” I said, the clothes washer loaded.
“My cardiologist.”
“Aaaand?”
“It’s never good news, Mom, when the cardiologist herself calls.”
###
I lean the photo against the phone on the rolltop desk and daydream in wonderment at the Grand Canyon mystery that has lain dormant for so long. Then, suddenly, the phone disturbs my reverie with a thunderous ring that rivals the blast of St. Gabriel’s trumpet. The furious vibrations thrum life back into the photo, each ring a heartbeat. The photo—can it be?—begins to transform with each ominous ring, as my heart pumps in time with the summons of St. Gabriel.
In the photo now, a worn woman I barely recognize settles into Andy’s brawny embrace. Atop her gray head he fashions the sweaty cap—the Big Man’s idea of a tiara. Marking the time, Andy checks his referee’s watch.
The phone’s blood-red call indicator flashes ‘Cardiologist,’ and its ringing courses through my veins. But why answer?
A tear blots the photo in my tremoring hand as a broken heart climbs into my throat. When a throbbing knot tightens in my chest, I lunge for the raging phone.
Yes, it’s time to settle up with Fate—and to answer the call. At last. As I reach across space and time, my fist tightens too and, like the two fists in the photo, rises triumphantly to the heavens.
