Excerpt: Both Now and Forever

I can’t imagine anything more beautiful in this world than the leaves changing colours in time for fall. Every year, when I was little, I remember my dad and I picking the prettiest of the leaves from the front lawn and pressing them inside some big old books that he had. We would lay them out on the table and let the fading afternoon light shine on them, radiating the fiery reds, crisp browns, and flaming oranges. My dad, a hobbyist photographer, took pictures of the leaves and scrapbooked them every year.
I remember the first time my dad let me use his camera. I was about four or five at the time, and all of the pictures were horrible. Some were cut out, or my thumb was in the way, and once I dropped the camera and got a picture of the floor. My dad himself developed the film, while I waited impatiently outside of his darkroom, counting the seconds until I could see the results. I sat at the table, swinging my feet in tandem with the kitchen clock seconds. One, two, three, four. Finally, the door opened and my dad laid the thirty;-odd photos out for me to see.
I picked up a half-leaf picture of mine, and a beautiful composition by my father. “Why aren’t mine good?” I asked, a small whimper catching in my throat.
“Becks,” Dad said, “Your photographs are good, sweetie.”
I looked at the photos, frowning, “No, they aren’t. Yours are better!”
“I’ve also had more practice, Becks,” Dad said, giving me a gentle squeeze, “I can teach you how to use the camera and in a few years, you’ll be better than me.”
“Promise?” I asked.
“Promise.”
That October was the year that my dad bought me my first camera, and joyous weekends were spent on nature trails learning how to use my marvelous new camera. It was also the last year that he stopped loving me.