A friend and I were out recently on a beautiful crisp Sunday in California and wanted to explore somewhere new. We stopped at this banged up old rag tag of a place that we've heard serves the best burgers in town. Here the booths have words carved into the wood, the bars are heavy with layers of varnish, grimy and rustic and real. I'd walked by here plenty of times but I'd never been inside.
The place was noisy. There were easy conversations going on between booths and the bar, music playing, people bent forward in concentration as they worked the paddles on pinball machines, the kitchen announcing orders were ready. The main floor was full of folks who had ridden together, their bikes in neat rows where the uneven wood sidewalks meet the street. Men lingered just outside with leather jackets emblazoned with motorcycle affiliations, their boots propped up on the side of the building.
We ordered through a slit in the kitchen wall and meandered up the stairs to discover the artifacts of this interesting place: a turn-of-the-century buggy, desilvering mirrors, sculptures and books and a compass, swiped road signs and dark wood worn glossy and soft. Long ago, this place took from its owners any hope of being dusted or cleaned.
We were nearly alone on the third floor when a young couple joined us. They were hauling a couple of big bags with them and set themselves up at a table at the far end of the room nearest the empty, dark bar. Their friend trailed along behind holding a beautiful toddler, maybe two, and a camera.
The woman captivated me. Her skin was luminous and pale, blonde hair framing an angular face with light clear eyes. She positioned herself in front of the bar, turned in profile, and tucked her black shirt under her breasts to reveal an enormously pregnant belly. The photographer friend adjusted his camera, checked the lighting and began the shoot. She quietly repositioned herself as he recommended adjustments to her look or stance or where to place her hands.
I was riveted in the moment, unable to break my gaze, unwilling to lose the recaptured connection to my pregnancies so long ago. She looked up and locked eyes with me, smiled and when asked if I was intruding, she invited me in.
Her husband then knelt before her and tenderly cradled the twin babies just beneath her skin and brought his lips to her belly with a touch as light as butterfly wings. The whirr of the camera was all I could hear, so taken with this moment that all other sounds had faded away. His reverence at her gift and hers at his love as she gazed downward were captured on film. And that sweet little boy, in tennis shoes that would fit in my pocket, toddled over and on tip toes stretched his hand as high as he could towards his mama's belly and gently said baby. His father's hands, low on his wife's abdomen, guided the tiny hand the rest of the way and shared the moment of a lifetime.
NMcC
No comments:
Post a Comment