Monday, June 30, 2008
Magic Hour
"Oh this is a fast one," she said. When I asked her what she meant, she shot me a look like I just asked where the sun goes at night. "It goes fast." I laughed and went to get another roll of film. She was a quirky one, always seeing drama and beauty in things everyone else ignored. I wished I had eyes like hers. Once I got to the bag, I looked back to ask her if we should shoot color or black and white, but she was gone.
And so was the rocking horse.
At first I couldn't wrap my head around it. There was just nothing there. No spring, no mount, just a sandpit. Did I imagine it there? Did I imagine her? I panicked. Scooped up the gear, her purse, threw it all in the car and started driving. I didn't know where to go, so I stuck to the main road by the meadows. Where do playground rocking horses like to go, I found myself wondering. We were already losing light with the last roll of film, so by then I needed headlights and could barely make out the fence lines.
Three miles from the playground, I found her. She stepped out of a tree line, staggering a little. Once I got her back in the car, I saw that she was covered in brambles and dirt, and scratched up all over. After some considerable silence, I asked her, I can't believe I asked her, why she didn't just turn him around and ride him back.
"He doesn't turn silly," she said, with another one of those looks. "He's just a playground horse."
