Tuesday, December 23, 2008

But I Forgot to Take a Picture

They say that we dream in black and white, and that our memories are in black and white as well. So I suppose I will remember my dearest sweetest Arnold with no alterations needed. But what happens when I can't remember what he looks like? That his soft black ears were the shape of tender ginkgo leaves? That he had a white stripe of fur that ran just to the left of his twitchy nose? That his white whiskers were the wiliest, craziest, boingiest I'd ever seen? That he looked as though he had on a stylish white shoulder cape that suited him very nicely indeed?

What happens when you haven't drawn a portrait and hadn't taken pictures together because you thought there was so much more time? And what if, at the time, the thought of photos were interrupted anyway because he was so excited to see you every day, and because snuggles and happy to be together time would always ensue? What happens when no one thought to capture those moments for you?

What happens when the best you can do is a Nokia cell phone, in the dead of night, on the front porch, in below freezing weather, with no shoes or socks, hoping that somehow a little life may show through the lens? A little life you wish you still had.

Blog and emotional relief inspired by R.I.P. My Dear Smokey. Thanks Bill.
A special thank you to J A S for "Very Still Life" (no longer available). That meant a lot to me.
A special thank you to Envision hope for "Missing Arnold". Thank you for that beautiful tribute. I'm glad you two met.


envisionhope said...

The picture in your heart will be the one you will always carry and the only one you will ever need.

Frieda Babbley said...

After he died I just pressed him into my chest. It felt like all his warmth and love and life just melted into me. It made me feel so much better. I don't think I'll ever forget that feeling. I keep thinking I see him and hear him.

J A S said...

It was this post that reminded me to put 'Very Still Life,' up. The loss of a pet is so very sad: a tiny gift from God goes whence it came- having clearly made such a wonderful impact.

Frieda Babbley said...

I thought so. I wanted to say thank you so much for that. It meant a lot to me, but I wasn't certain.

Frieda Babbley said...

I'm so sorry, I don't know where my head is. I wanted to be clearer, I know you didn't take that beautiful photo because of this post, but I knew there was a connection, so it was for that connection I wanted to thank you; because I was worried I had been too morbid (as I often am), and it was nice to see that someone else saw the beauty in capturing something that is no longer breathing in this world.
Phenominal photo.

She had an ansamic disorder that disallowed her brain to function properly. Can you guess the verifier?

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