Stroke
Stroke, stroke, stroke.
The un-lacquered paddle scrapes against the rock at the bottom of the shallow pond. The pond is now green with algae. Once in the center, she is out of reach, but not out of ear shot. The aged, weathered wood that makes up the seat of the row boat droops beneath her own meager weight. She feels like the boat looks.
Having paused her rowing, she reaches for a bag she keeps tucked between her legs. She gently pulls the zipper along, which reveals her prized possession. Her right eye closes. She lifts the camera to her left eye and peers through the lens.
It’s a filter, her camera. When she looks through the viewfinder, the world that reflects back at her through the glass is removed from reality. Her frosty cheek presses against the plastic of the camera’s body. Her finger raises, equipped and ready. It hovers above the shutter button.
All sound stops existing.
She empties her mind of all thought, leaving only vacancy.
With each frame, each capture she becomes more at peace. Nothing matters to her in the moment. Nothing could possibly hurt her. Her hands are steady, despite the way the boat wiggles with her every breath, as if fighting against the instability of the water.
Time passes as she steals it. She drifts closer to the land throughout the late afternoon. The colors change. She hears that voice, just within ear shot, calling her name. She pulls the camera off her sticky cheek and carefully places it back into the bag, which she keeps tucked between her legs.
The un-lacquered paddle scrapes against the rock at the bottom of the shallow pond, where she stops.
