The Roll of Film That Waited for Her
(or, what my Pentax Spotmatic taught me about magic)
Roxy and Dayma, kissed by a sun leak after I opened the camera mid-roll.
Ever since I got my hands on the Pentax Spotmatic — that sturdy little time machine from the 1960s — I haven’t been able to stop shooting on it. One roll per client shoot, always a gift from me, always for the joy of it. Film is my souvenir of light.
At a recent maternity shoot with the kindest couple, I loaded a roll quickly — too quickly, it turned out. The film didn’t catch. Not one frame. I was quietly heartbroken, even though they only asked for digital. That roll, I thought, was lost to the wind.
A few days later, I reloaded it carefully and used it during a picnic with my son. Shot fifteen frames. All felt smooth, steady. I thought: we’re good now. The camera listened. The film obeyed.
Then came our shoot in the park — Roksolana and Dayma. I began to shoot. Shot 39 came and went… but the roll wouldn’t end. I panicked. Opened the camera. Disaster: the film was still inside. Had I ruined everything? Had I just opened the vault mid-alchemy?
A second roll began. My heart wasn’t in it. The girls saw it — my sadness, my uncertainty — and gently said: “We’re here for the experience.” No backup digital. Just trust. And grass. And summer shadows.
At home, I almost didn’t send the rolls to the lab. But something tugged. Maybe hope. Maybe habit.
And then yesterday, the scans arrived.
The picnic? Nothing. Fifteen invisible frames. As if my son and I were never there.
But then — Roksolana. Frame after frame, perfectly exposed. Even the ones after I opened the camera. As if the film had waited… just for her.
I’ve heard people say: “The camera loves her.”
Now I know exactly what they mean.
Roxy — you have magic in you. And I have proof.
