In Pictures
by Leareth
published April 2004
Gracia Hughes did not know how to use a camera. Her husband had been the one always playing with it and knew how to work it; how to load the film, focus, whether a flash was needed or not, and so on. If he wanted to be in the photo rather than taking it, he would set it up for her so all Gracia needed to do was press the shutter button -- and even that she sometimes took several tries to get right. On the whole, but, it was a good arrangement, and it had always worked. They had filled up shelves of photo albums this way, of their dates, their wedding, their time together, and of course, their daughter. Almost every week of Alicia's three years was lovingly documented; looking through the albums, it was like watching Alicia grow.
The photos had stopped when Maes Hughes had died. In the wake of that event Gracia completely forgot about the camera, and it was left to grow dust in its box in the study. The photo album shelf stopped growing, though Alicia didn't. She turned four then five, every month a little taller, a little louder, a wonderful little girl with a smile of sunshine that clouded over whenever she saw her friends get picked up from school by their fathers. Yet none of this was ever recorded. Watching over her daughter every day, Gracia didn't see the need.
One day, Winry Rockbell came to visit. Alicia had been ecstatic to see her adopted sister, who being in the country, she saw so rarely. Somehow during the course of the afternoon, the old photo albums had come out, and Alicia had merrily pointed out her birthdays, her first tricycle, her mama and papa-who-was-now-working-in-heaven-but-looked-over-her-everyday, her friends. But then at a certain point there were no more photos, and Alicia had to tell rest of her stories on her own. Listening to them Gracia remembered her husband, how even though he sometimes went a little far, loved to catch pieces of his daughter's life in film, a medium to show to others who did not have the privilege of sharing Alicia's life each day. She thought of the years since Maes had gone, and how he would have enjoyed taking Alicia to and from her first day at school or been on hand as Alicia gave her cards for Mothers' Day. And when at last after dinner Winry had gone home and Alicia was in bed, Gracia quietly went into the storeroom that used to be her husband's study and searched until she found the box that held the camera. The instruction manual was still with it, dog-eared from her husband's fingers. Gracia sat down to read it thoroughly, and the next morning after seeing Alicia to school, went to the shop her husband had so frequently gone to the buy some film. When Alicia came home, Gracia had the camera ready.
Her first photos turned out black. She had forgotten to open the lens cover. When she found out, Gracia imagined her husband laughing at her, and laughed as well. Her next attempts turned out much better, and soon the shelf with the photo albums began to expand again.
Once a week, the photo album shelf was empty. These were the days Gracia took all the photos and went to the place where Maes Hughes rested so she could tell him how their daughter grew.
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