Notes To My Mother

One afternoon late in the day I was driving through Sebastopol on highway 12. The sun was low on the horizon, well into the golden hour, when I glanced to my left. I couldn’t have seen it for more than a fraction of a second, but it was unmistakable and it has been etched in my memory ever since. White blossoms set back in the dark of a thicket, framed by the trees and illuminated by the setting sun. Only the blossoms were lit, everything else was dark and undiscernable. I hesitated, should I stop, run back and see if I could get a shot of it? I had my camera, but the traffic, and where to pull off?  In the time it took me to debate it I was well down the road and I let opportunity slip away.  I have returned on subsequent occasions always looking to see if that scene would reappear. I am sure it has, but never again in my presence. Every time I think of those illuminated blossoms I remind myself, “If you see it, stop and shoot it”, even if I am a mile down the road: ...