Вино из одуванчиков

           "Thiswasanoldone,takenwhenyouweretwenty."

           "Oh,that.It’squiteajoke.EachtimeIgivetoacharityorattendaballtheydustthatpictureoffandprintit.Everyoneintownlaughs;evenI"

           "It’scruelofthepaper."

           "No.Itoldthem,Ifyouwantapictureofme,usetheonetakenbackin1853.Letthemremembermethatway.Keeptheliddown,inthenameofthegoodLord,duringtheservice."

           "I’lltellyouallaboutit."Hefoldedhishandsandlookedatthemandpausedamoment.Hewasrememberingthepicturenowanditwasveryclearinhismind.Therewastime,hereinthegardentothinkofeveryaspectofthephotographandofHelenLoomis,veryyoung,posingforherpicturethefirsttime,aloneandbeautiful.Hethoughtofherquiet,shylysmilingface.

           Itwasthefaceofspring,itwasthefaceofsummer,itwasthewarmnessofcloverbreath.Pomegranateglowedinherlips,andthenoonskyinhereyes.TotouchherfacewasthatalwaysnewexperienceofopeningyourwindowoneDecembermorning,early,andputtingoutyourhandtothefirstwhitecoolpowderingofsnowthathadcome,silently,withnoannouncement,inthenight.Andallofthis,thisbreath-warmnessandplum-tendernesswasheldforeverinonemiracleofphotographicchemistrywhichnoclockwindscouldblowupontochangeonehouroronesecond;thisfinefirstcoolwhitesnowwouldnevermelt,butliveathousandsummers.

           Thatwasthephotograph;thatwasthewayheknewher.