Click.

Cameras in phones don’t make sounds anymore, unless you choose to turn that feature on. To me, that’s always been the most comforting part of the camera. It lets me know when I’ve actually taken the shot, but more than that, it lets my subjects know that they can stop posing. Sometimes, people drop their smiles. But none of that is happening here. The smiles are genuine.

Picture this. Gulls squawk overhead, white dots gliding lazily across an infinite expanse of sky. I’m wearing a tank top, cargo shorts, and five layers of SPF 70 because Mom wouldn’t let me go on our youth group’s annual beach trip until I slathered on a few handfuls of the stuff. We’re at Capitola Beach, watching the waves crawl up the shoreline.

“Let’s get pictures! I need some for the Insta,” Anna suggests.

The rest of the high school seniors all nod in agreement. As a junior, I tag along because I know somebody’s got to take the pictures, but also because they’re my friends and this is something nice I can do for them. We all walk along the pier. They’re all laughing and smiling, and I try to as well. But part of me knows that they’re all going to be gone soon, leaving for college. Part of me knows that this could be the last time I see the people who helped shape my faith and my character. And a part of me is selfish, wanting them to stay with me. All of a sudden, they stop. It’s the end of the pier.

“I guess this is as good a place as any. Everybody huddle together, and get in the frame.”

I kneel down, trying to steady my phone. One of my last photoshoots with these guys. It’s one of my last chances to capture them. Hold them in the five-inch screen forever.

Click.

I shift my weight. Now I’m doing couples shots, vertical orientation. I try to rotate my body to accommodate the sun. Why can’t they accommodate what I need? I want them to stay.

Click.

“Okay, one last group photo. Just back up a little. A little more. Just a little more …”

Of course, Michael, the klutz, backs up all the way to the edge, and with a yelp, he tumbles backward into the water. At first, everyone’s shocked. Then, they laugh, and start jumping in after him. I stand alone on the pier for a moment. Last chance.

“Get in here! The water’s fine! It’s not so bad!”

Their faces beam back up at me. It’s not so bad to let go. I smile, set my phone on the pier, and dive in.

I picture that endless summer when I’m feeling down. When it’s bleak and gray and all those clichés I promised not to use to describe my life creep into my mind, I try to remember the warmth and color of what was. I picture that sun-drenched afternoon and those friends who never really left, and won’t ever let go of those snapshots. 

Click.