So, I photograph this moment with you

We’re wearing swimming shorts as we walk towards your hidden spot. We parked next to the cemetery, where, as soon as I got out of your mini car, I asked the departed souls in a whisper to excuse us for invading their space. You know this already, so as a form of solidarity, you also murmured the phrase, and I looked at you amused. It’s a bit of a trek to this spot of yours. You told me you had discovered it because you’d always liked looking for shooting locations used in movies. This one, the place where we’re going, is the body of water used in the movie Call Me By Your Name, in the scene where they’re taking a dip in the pond.

The sky starts to turn orange while we’re walking. On our way, groups of shirtless people wearing slippers and their bags slung on one shoulder meet us on their way back to where we came from. We think we’re a bit late, but we’re just in time, coming in at the hour when everyone has already finished their swim and packed up their bags. After some time, we reach the entrance, and from there, I catch a glimpse of the water, glistening as the afternoon sun reflects its light onto its surface. We camp near it, laying down our bath towels on the untrimmed land, and change our shoes to slippers. You ask me if I want to walk through the water. It’s shallow, reaching just a few inches below our knees. “It’s very cold, though,” you say. “But it’s a nice feeling as we walk.”

And you’re right. It’s freezing, and as soon as I feel the water around my feet, my immersed skin feels numb. Still, we stroll, slowly padding through the force of the cold water against our every step, feeling the knobs of the hundreds of rocks lying under our feet. We see them clearly because the water is so clear, almost as if it wasn’t there if it weren’t for the sunlight. There’s a small distance between us, but we’re not closing the gap. Instead, we look up, locking our gazes with warm smiles, understanding each other without words.

You tell me that this is where you once spent your afternoon and finished a book. This is the place you brought Pongo, your Labrador, who enjoyed running around the water. It is the spot where you sat down to reflect, a personal, sacred space you have now shared with me. So, I look at you again, as you tell me this story. My lips part as I breathe out. My words are full, but I don’t say anything. The way we look at each other, filled with tenderness and understanding, speaks for us, the translation of some joyous endless echoes we’re always happy to listen to.

When it’s time for us to go, I see the horizon, painted with a light red tint, then the sun, dipping further, giving its final blaze before the night comes. We pack our bags, and I whisper again, the same phrase I used near the cemetery. It works this way, I tell you, because it’s a way to ask the living and spiritual beings there to allow us to depart without them and temporarily inhabit their space with respect. You find it fascinating and say, “I need to remember when to use it. I mean, what if I said this when I entered your house for the first time, when I met your parents?” We begin laughing, the trees carrying the fleeting, fluttering sounds among them.

We’re walking back now, and by the time we exit from the pond, the sky has long turned light violet. It’s beautiful, and my heart is whole. On the path, we’re alone except for the lone young woman walking in our direction far behind us. We start laughing at silly, menial things again, but the one that makes me fold and wheeze is how much you want to grab a raw corn from the fields. I keep telling you we can’t just because of the muddy canals separating the path from the fields, but you insist, still. We don’t end up taking one, but the memory, now a page in the long book we’re writing, leaves us a sweet taste to savor for a lifetime.

Before we get to the parking, I ask you if we can stop for a while because I want to take a photo of the landscape. It looks like an abandoned village, even when it’s not, and the scene makes me feel nostalgic for no reason, or at least one that I’m only beginning to understand: no one’s around, and it feels peaceful. The crickets are chirping faintly, and the wind is not blowing. It’s solemn, the moment, and I capture it in my memory, more so the one I see when I look back to see you standing, your hands in your pockets, waiting for me by your car, grinning.

We’re in the car now. You strap on your seatbelt, fire up the engine, connect your phone to the dashboard, and begin reversing. Your focus is on the road and the restaurant where we’re eating dinner. Mine is on you, freezing the minute, so I can study your features I have long memorized, photograph this moment with you, and always remember this time.