Things Becoming

From the field note

On September sixth, we photographed things that weren't finished yet. On the windowsill were three little pots Audrey had once marked by color: Purple. Yellow. Red. When we planted them, most of what existed was possibility. Now little green heads had pushed through the soil. Some came together. Some came alone. Some had barely arrived. Beside them, the herbs were farther along. The basil opened toward the window. The chives reached in long green lines. The parsley was messier—some parts growing, some struggling, some already finished. Outside, at the top of our road, the earth was being asked to become something else too. Machines had moved and packed the ground. Columns stood where open ground had been. A little county road ran through the middle of something becoming enormous. It had rained a couple hours earlier, and for a moment the water made its own map through old drainage and unfinished ground. So I photographed it. Not because I knew what it meant. Because someday I might. Things become. And sometimes the work is simply to be there while they do. —HTR