The Photograph ((From The Rain and The Love))

The sun was shining over the small open clearing, washing it in the rays. The day couldn’t be any more beautiful. The grass was a crisp fresh green, swaying softly in the gentle breeze along side with the violets, daisies and irises. You could smell the scent of the flowers on the breeze like a brief spray of a floral perfume.1

I walked into this field from a thinned out forest, barefoot and dressed in a long white summer dress, my full, round belly poking out. The grass under my feet was so softly that it felt comfortable enough to sleep on. In the middle of the clearing was a gravestone, no more then three feet high. Carved onto it were a name and a date.2

Donavan Valentine
1988-2008
“May he be blessed.”3

A tear escaped down my cheek, as if I were in pain. The pain was in my heart. That day Donavan died hurt so much. It seems like it was yesterday. I was waiting in my long white wedding dress, hands becoming sweaty from being nervous as sweat began to slowly trickle down my temples. Suddenly I could hear people screaming from inside the church and a single gunshot, doors bursting open and people running out.4

I placed one hand on the gravestone and the other on my stomach. I smiled; knowing that my baby would be born soon and would be raised with all my love. I ran my fingers over my stomach, feeling the tiny creature in me kick around. I laughed softly and looked up to the sky.5

“This is your child,” I whispered into the wind, hoping it would carry my message to him.6

“Rest your hand back on your stomach, Mrs. Valentine.” My faithful young maid said softly, holding up a camera for me to see. I wiped away the tear and rested my hand on my stomach. “This is your best picture yet.” And the camera flashed.