'The Perfect Moment' by Rachael Dunlop

He lifts the camera and looks through the viewfinder. Adjusts the focus. There she is, his wife, sitting on the grass with the baby in her lap. The baby crushes a fretful fist of the yellow gingham fabric of her dress in his hand, lets it go, repeats.

She doesn’t notice. She is looking at the camera, waiting to be told to smile.

He’s waiting for the perfect moment to take the picture. He still uses a film camera and has only one shot left on the roll. He doesn’t like the profligacy of digital photography, prefers to weigh and measure the moment he clicks the shutter.

He looks up. The sun isn’t in quite the right place. He could ask her to move but doesn’t. Instead, he waits for the world to turn and make the sun agree with her.

 He returns his eye to the viewfinder, squinting the other closed.

The baby begins to squirm in her lap. She dips her head and blows a raspberry on the back of the child’s neck.

‘Please,’ he says, ‘look at me.’

He props the camera on the tree stump beside him and hunkers down to check the composition. Still good. Better, even, for being down at their level.

He sets the timer. He hasn’t used it before, but how hard can it be?

He has almost reached her when he hears the shutter click.

When the photo is printed, he sees the shadow of himself across the outside edge, always moving towards his wife and child, never reaching them.

Later, after she has gone, and the baby too, he has the photo enlarged and framed. It’s the only one he has of all three of them.