Picture Perfect

I've got a photography story today. It's only a small one; but it has a happy ending. And it's January: it's dark, it's cold and I'll take my cheer wherever I can find it!

My story started out like this:

The Tall One came home from school one afternoon, half way through last term. "They're going to take our picture," he said. "Everyone in Upper Sixth. all together. As a momento." and he savoured the word, because he knew it was one I would appreciate. So, in return,  I gave him five minutes of Mum Talk about how important I think stuff like this is, and how he'd love to look at the photo years from now - and he rolled his eyes and went off to do something else.

A few days later he came home from school again and he said: "I won't be in the photo after all. I've got Debating Competition away that day and they'll have to leave me out". So, I gave him a bit more Mum Talk about how the picture would still be important and we'd buy a copy anyway; and he rolled his eyes and went off to do something else.

Some days after that he came home again. "Photo update!" he said. "They've taken my picture and they're going to Photoshop me in." Well of course that gave me free licence for at least ten minutes on the thoughtfulness of the school, the miraculous wonders of Photoshop, special memories, and so on and so on - and he rolled his eyes..and you know the rest.

Then a Bad Thing happened. He came home from school just before Christmas and he shook his head. "The proofs for the photo arrived, " he said. "And I'm not in it! They didn't Photoshop me after all."

I went into overdrive - we needed a photo all the same. His friends were there, he'd want to remember..I fought back the urge to tell him about my school Formal photo (maybe some day); and I pressed the money into his hand. "Buy it," I said. "You won't regret it."

Last Friday he came through the door carrying a smart little navy case. "It's the photo," he said. "It's in a nice box, but I'm still not in it." He handed it over and I asked if I could have a look all the same, see who I could recognise. I opened it up. The picture was rolled into a scroll, tied with a ribbon; and, unless I undid the bow, I could only see one or two heads at the end of one row. One or two heads? But wait! One of those heads was sporting an unmistakeable shock of dark brown hair. I could only see two heads - and it looked like one of them was the Boy Who Wasn't There. How can I be subtle about this? I thought. He must have been looking for himself in the wrong place. How can I ask if I'm seeing things?

"Am I seeing things?" I said. "Is that you?" And he looked and for the first time in about a week, he smiled. And I was glad. Because he's very nearly eighteen. There are things he doesn't need me to do for him any more, and things I can't do for him even if he wanted me to; but, every now and again, I still get to give him a helping hand. And that's good.