Emma stood in the doorway of her father's den watching out the windows to the acres of rolling grass. The fields seemed to flash from dark to light green as the breeze made its way toward the properties edge. ?Her family's farm was what she thought of as the typical Indiana farm. A large plot of land several miles out of town nestled in between acres of trees and vast fields of corn and beans. From where she stood, she could just make out the edge of the property near the road. It was almost hidden from view, but the long stand of oaks that ran the length of the northeast corner defined its edge near the road that dissected the valley.
She focused on her father's truck in the drive and then looked to her reflection in the window. She ran her hand through her long brown hair and pushed her hands into her pockets as if she was trying to stretch her jeans. She huffed as she glanced at the reflection again all the while wishing she had put something on that morning that was a little less form-fitting than the jeans and a long sleeve shirt she wore. Her outfit would have been perfectly fine for a Saturday in the office in the city, but as she tugged at her top, she anticipated her mother's comments about her being too slender.
She turned from the windows and walked over to the far wall that was covered with rows of photos. She could see a thin layer of dust on their frames and as she looked at the numerous shots, she noticed there didn't seem to be a pattern to how her father had placed them. Small photographs of friends and family seemed dwarfed by larger pictures of her father's prized sunrises.
She looked away from the photos to the far side of the office. There was her father's desk sitting in front of several double-hung windows facing the doorway. Emma imagined him sitting there; she could see him running his hand through his thick brown hair and motioning to her to come to him as she and her mother were the only things that could distract him from his work.
She sighed loudly, crossing her arms, and left the spot where she stood. The old wooden floors creaked beneath her feet as she shifted her weight. Emma counted her steps as she walked, all the while thinking to herself that the room seemed to have gotten smaller over the years. As she moved over to the far side of the room, she studied several more pictures there on the wall and then she reached out to one in front of her adjusting it, so it hung level with the others.
Finding one of the few there with her father in it, she began to smirk as she remembered how he had been a consummate artist with his pictures. He relished capturing his subjects at exactly the right moment. But she also remembered how he never enjoyed being the focal point of anyone else's shots. That's what made this picture so special. It had been the result of an ill-placed camera and a mischievous Army friend who knew he hated having his picture taken.
The photo showed him sitting atop a bulldozer clearing a landing strip on an island in the South Pacific. He hadn't even known the picture existed until he developed the film, and when he did find it, he had almost thrown it out. Emma had discovered the picture in a box in the attic and secretly framed it. It was up on the wall for days until he finally figured it out. He wanted it taken down once he saw it, but Emma and her mother insisted that it stay.
That photo and one other were all the evidence she knew of from his time in the military. Her mother had told her he had served as an engineer and photographer in the Army Corps of Engineers during World War II. She said he had been in the Pacific theater for the war where he was dropped into key locations that needed to be quickly developed so they could be used as forward operating bases. Over the years, Emma had asked him about his life during the war, and whenever a report for school would come up, she would ask him for his opinion, but he would never talk about it. Most of the time he just would smile and tell her, "Maybe some other time."
She studied his face there in the photo and then reached her finger to her lips, kissing it and pressed it to the picture.
"Love you, Daddy," she whispered.
Emma turned from the pictures and moved over to her father's desk. As she neared its edge, she ran her hand along it, feeling the nicks and grooves it had received over the years. She moved around behind it, where a large leather chair sat and rested her hands on its tall back. The soft leather still held the sweet and musky scent of his cologne. She tugged at it, rolling it from under the desk, and plopped down as she settled into the chairs soft leather.
No one had been in the office since he had passed, and now as she looked at his undisturbed work, awaiting his return, she felt a lump in her throat. Emma swallowed hard, settling her heart, and then reached out, grabbing one of the photos directly in front of her.
The black-and-white shot looked like something from one of the local high school sporting events. Even though her father had retired years before, he'd stayed busy taking pictures for the local paper and even teaching the occasional class on the art of photography. She couldn't remember a time when he didn't have his camera. Emma flipped the photo over, finding her father's writing on the back. She studied his words, written there in what he called his "chicken-scratch" handwriting and, as she began to read, she heard the distinct creak of the floor. Emma looked up toward the noise to find her mother standing in the doorway. She smiled at the sight of her.
"Good morning, Mom,"
