Perfect Timing

I want to talk about this picture:

It's one of my favorites, but you won't be able to fully appreciate the moment without some explanation. So let me enlighten you.

It was a bright, cloudless day in the plains of north Texas. My dad was working in the yard, perhaps on his garden or compost or... something manly. (He also likes to ride around on the riding lawn mower he bought off Craigslist or walk around with his huge headphones and leaf blower pack, but I'm fairly certain he wasn't doing that.) My brother Austin (18) was playing fetch with our dog, Wrigley.

Playing fetch, of course, is a loose phrase with this dog, who hasn't yet (nor will he probably ever) actually master the whole bring-the-ball-back-to-the-person-who-threw-it-and-not-just-run-in-the-opposite-direction idea. My sister was sitting at the table in the backyard, and my mom was taking pictures of the various lazy Saturday activities of the Reese clan.

The result being the picture above, which I'm getting to. Be patient.

My other brother Daniel (21) and I, for some unknown reason, started lightly bouncing a volleyball against the house. Lightly. He's a good five, six, maybe even seven inches taller than me, so the throw-and-catch routine always ended up in his favor. Me, being the insane competitive freak I am, found this highly irritating as I jumped and stretched, only to have him stand flat on the ground, lift his arm, and have the ball still out of my reach. (This image is made somewhat clearer in the below photo.)

To the far left, beyond the parameters of the picture, is a brick wall. That wall is my parents' bedroom, which looks out onto the backyard. It has a large area of windows, but my brother and I, being the intelligent adults we were, were bouncing the volleyball against the brick part of the wall above the windows.

Throw. Bounce. Jump. Catch. Repeat. All while my mother took pictures.

It was, however, too good to be true. Inevitably, my brother would eventually fail to throw the ball not quite so lightly and not quite higher than the window.

The ball hit the glass.

My brother gasped and pulled his fist to his mouth.

I shouted and stared in horror.

The ball fell to the ground.

My mother snapped this picture:

You can see our faces better here:

Luckily, the window didn't break. Or crack. Or anything of the sort. Sort of an anticlimactic ending depending on how you look at it. But the picture was golden--a moment captured forever. Perfect timing.

My brother and I composed ourselves and found something a little less dangerous to do. Apparently I never really will grow up and stop almost breaking things. Or, for that matter, spilling food on myself, getting crumbs in my hair, tripping over my own feet, or using words incorrectly. I'll be that grandma with a milk mustache. Classy.