Candy?

There’s a unique kind of power in holding a Canon R3 camera. It’s like wielding Excalibur (or maybe a rusty boat anchor). Every shot feels epic, every detail razor-sharp. The photos I take with it are not just pictures—they’re artifacts of the world as I see it. They’re my time capsules, preserving a sliver of the chaos and beauty I experienced in the moment. They're my contribution to a community who has given me so much, even when I was in my 20s and living on the streets, unhoused.

But oh boy, is that camera a beast. It’s massive, attention-grabbing, expensive and about as subtle as a fireworks show in a library. Not exactly the kind of gear you casually toss into a bag before running errands. Sometimes I can't take a photo. I need something else.

That’s where my phone steps in.

When I don’t have my good camera, I resort to snapshots of a different kind: word pictures. I’ll type furiously into the Notes app on my phone or scratch out ideas on a napkin, weaving scenes with sentences instead of apertures and shutter speeds. Of course, these snapshots come with my own brain’s built-in filters: nostalgia, humor, and my own narration for dramatic effect.

Take this story, for example:

I was waiting in the car while Amanda got her nails done. As I looked up from my book, I saw a woman who looked to be in her 60s carrying a small, naked doll with raggedy hair. She was shuffling past me in a Mrs. Claus jacket paired with jeans and white sneakers. The Christmas coat was made of a dirty red velvet with black buttons. An odd choice for April, but what do I know?

Her companion, a young woman in worn jeans and a t-shirt, was guiding her by the hand while juggling patience and a thousand-yard stare. She had a medium-sized purse slung over her shoulder that was made of jean material that I wasn't sure was distressed on account of style or hard times. My guess was hard times.

The older woman glanced into the window of the nail salon. Her eyes got big and watery. She stopped, jerking the hand of her companion.

“Candy?” the older woman asked, pointing toward a nail polish rack in the salon’s window with the hand holding the doll. I saw Amanda look up through the window, at first confused. The door to the salon was open to ventilate the fumes and she had heard my new friend ask for candied polish. When she saw the woman she gave a knowing smile.

"Candy?" My jolly friend asked again, rocking on her heals. The younger woman sighed, herding her gently away from the window with both hands on her shoulders. “No, you already had candy. Remember? Krogers? Let’s go to the dollar store, instead.”

As they passed me, the older woman stopped, bringing her younger chaperone to a halt again. She smiled a toothy grin. It was the smile of a child – innocent, absolute. The kind of toothy salutation you wish you could bottle and drink on a work-night. She held up the baby doll she’d been carrying and gave me a little wave with the doll hand.

Without thinking, I smiled and waved back at the doll.