Why I Rarely Take Pictures

The Pacific Ocean was exceptionally beautiful that late summer day. My husband and I slipped off our shoes and walked the sandy beach.

We had moved to the Pacific Northwest nearly fifteen years ago, a far cry from the small Midwest town we’d grown up in. It was while we were on vacation that we fell in love with the area, the mountains, the valley, and most of all, the ocean.

The ocean mesmerized us from the start. The way it clambered up rocky beds, how it churned and spit frothy water. Its untamed beauty. Its wildness. Its serenity.

We watched the waters draw closer, daring to kiss our bare toes. My husband took my hand and pulled me towards him. Waves hit rocks in a thunderous roar. Foam rose over foam.

A perfect picture moment, one I wanted forever engraved in my mind. I reached inside my bag with my left hand, looking for my camera, but it was stuck. I began to pull my other hand from my husband’s grasp, when I stopped.

I looked at our fingers, ten little pieces of bone and flesh, intertwined, then looked back at the sea. This place, the way the sea rose and fell, the way waves crossed one another in fragmented angles and sun beamed on water’s sharp edges, would never happen again. The ocean never looks the same way twice.

But that moment, my husband and I entranced by the scene before us, our hands merged as one, that moment right then. Right there. That would never come again either.

Once a moment is gone, it is gone forever. There is no replay button in life. Click To Tweet

I pulled my hand out of the bag, and leaned closer to my husband, squeezing our fingers tighter. He looked over and smiled.

A chilly breeze swept across the sands. Gulls glided in a rhythmic motion of grace. A perfect picture moment. A moment I would never see again. A moment I would never forget.

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