A Faint, Wavering Light
Flash Fiction by Evan Hundhausen
My wife and I sit in our living room. She’s in the armchair looking at a coffee table-sized picture book about Iceland’s waterfalls. From the couch I flip through channels with the remote because more than one football game I want to watch is on.
“Glymur,” she says.
“Spelled like G-L-I-M-M-E-R?” I kid.
“The word Glymer means ‘clash or ringing,’” she says. “Out of all the waterfalls there, it’s the tallest.”
“The only waterfall you’ve ever taken a picture of is Boulder Falls,” I say.
I gaze at the enlarged photograph above the fireplace on the mantelpiece; a photo she took of the place by our home in Colorado last winter. The water falls off cliff rock and down into snow and ice.
When my wife’s not taking pictures of Boulder Falls she takes pictures of newlyweds and families. She has a photography studio down in our basement, but her real passion is shooting nature.
We woke up early today because on weekends we head into the mountains, so she can get her nature shots. Taking pictures in public is a great way for her to promote her photo business. People hike the trails up there, see her camera mounted on her tripod, and stop to talk.
