I talked with Jay again about how I want a camera like his—a little Canon—after he brought up selling it to me and then realized it wouldn't be worth it for either of us. I haven't been happy with mine for a long time, and have desired the Canon. My sister, Jeanie, bought one when she finally purchased a digital camera.

Nevertheless, I have been grateful to have any camera, to have that power to suck in what I see in front of me. And to luxuriate in playing with light. This Nikon has served me well enough for my talents, although it was purchased with the vain hope that if I acquired a new digital camera my output quality would at least double. Not true; it is hard to make up for an unsteady hand, and some kind of shutter-pressing follow-through that would be beautiful if I was playing golf or bowling. But pitiful in this case.

Last Friday, we decided to go see the Meteor Crater, and after driving the six miles from I-40, we parked and were getting ready to take the walk up to the building. The wind was wild. The sun was bright. I put my camera on the table while I grabbed a hat and coat. I'd already taken pictures out the window of the parking lot and beyond, and was eager to have my camera with me as we visited the Meteor Crater.

But that parking lot picture was my last.

Somehow, in a gesture toward my borrowed Alaska hat, I swept the camera off the table. It hit the floor hard. I'd dropped this camera before, even on concrete, and I had high hopes. Or no intuition about my imminent loss. Or, for once, no worries or anxieties. Just trust. But when I turned it on, it made a clicking noise, forever, straining to focus. Nothing I did could bring it back.

So I'm without a camera now. Being without that instant response to the passing flow is a big change. I feel it deeply, though I can't judge whether it's for better or worse. Oh, I can borrow Andre's. But it's not the same. Unloading the memory card: mine, mine, his, mine, his...

The economy be damned, I'm going to start saving for that Canon.