She doesn’t notice the click of the shutter as I snap her picture

The autumn day is breezy, the vibrant, multihued leaves on the trees float gently down to earth. I’m sitting on my porch, camera poised, wondering what to select as my next subject when her eyes grab my attention.

Large, luminous, soft blue-green eyes, ringed with a band of midnight blue.

Her gaze, directed to somewhere too far for me to see, appears slightly agitated; the vulnerable curve of her small pink lips betrays a barely perceptible frown. I almost think I detect a solitary teardrop frozen on her cheek. And I find myself wondering; If this little being could articulate the pain in her eyes and lips, what would she say?

She doesn’t notice the click of the shutter as I snap her picture.

The next day, I enlarge the photo and print it. I study my “picture child,” as I’ve dubbed her. She’s perhaps five years old, clad in a faded navy jacket. Underneath that, a white woolen jersey is tucked into blue overalls, hanging on her skinny frame.

I’m drawn again to those expressive eyes and find myself wishing to hear their story. I recognize her as a child from around the corner, although I don’t know her name.