Creosote Bush Shot

Do you still have those pictures of me that you took in Big Bend?

You know which ones.

As I say that, I also know you have them for you never throw anything like that away. You have all the pictures of the women who wandered through your life, especially those who stumbled and fell. Pictures, notes, ticket stubs, letters, and ephemera. Memory clues, you always called them.

Of course, these pictures are in a different class. I smile as I write that.

You were taking pictures of Castellon and the yucca plants that were blooming. I had spread out a blanket and somehow my clothes slipped away. Something that seemed to happen all too easily back in those days.

I was drifting off a bit in the warm sun when I realized the clicks from the camera had gotten louder. When I opened my eyes, you were right there a few steps from me, clicking away.

You know me far too well to think I was embarrassed or shy or that I minded in the least. After all, those were far from the first time all my skin had appeared in your lens. I knew, too, how private you were about such things so I wasn’t concerned about that either.

You actually had me pose a bit. You made me move over a little so that the bushes were delicately blocking certain parts of my anatomy.

I still remember your “lessons” as you taught me the name of the plants, animals, birds, insects, and even the snakes, when we saw them. You had taught me the name of this one. It was a Creosote bush you strategically arranged.

Later, at home, when you came out of the darkroom, you had one shot that you really liked and put in a frame to hang on the wall. I caught a glimpse of my bare legs. So, much for your being private was my first thought.

After you hung it, you stepped back so I could see. It had Castellon in the background, glowing in the setting sun. In the foreground, I was splayed out on the desert floor with one of my arms across my breasts—well, at least the portion my arm would cover. The way I was laying made the lower part of my body rather prominent in the scene.

You had arranged just enough of a branch of Creosote to barely cover the “good” parts—just enough not to be obvious. Like most of your photographs, it was beautiful; and like you normally were, it was tasteful in its presentation.

You always named your photos. At least the ones you hung or gave to others. I asked what this one was called and I laughed aloud at the pun. You named it “Creosote Bush”.

I wonder if it is still on your wall and that memory still in your thoughts. Maybe some narrow-minded woman is in your life now and made you take it down. I do doubt that for you’ve never had much patience with narrow minds.

I would love to have a print of that shot but that is not to be. I am winding down and ridding my life of all the little things that one accumulates. I don’t need the physical “memory clues” to bring all of those times back to life. I can simply play one of those old songs and watch the sunset. The miles fade away as do the years. The memories come to life.

Sounds like a plan for tonight.