Nothing really prepares a person for the truly extraordinary moments in life, and this moment was no exception. I took off the top cover and, somehow, I knew immediately. I carefully pried open the box, and after sifting through a few bits of paper packaging, the cardboard mold of the F6 revealed itself. It was gold, and emblazoned with words I thought I’d never see in the flesh – Nikon F6. What greeted me from inside this innocuous box was another, prettier box. When I saw that its origin was CP founder James, I immediately carried it into the house, grabbed some scissors, and sliced through the packaging. Its presence was a little strange, as I hadn’t ordered anything, but I was mostly sure it wasn’t a bomb. It was just a few weeks ago that I discovered a benign looking package sitting on my front porch. I shifted between grief and remembrance, and wandered around the house aimlessly as the memory of a truly great camera still lingered in my brain. The rest of the day was spent in a silent stupor – the muted shock which occurs when someone or something truly special is taken from us. I drove home, the familiar presence of a bulky, black camera sadly absent from my passenger’s seat. I headed to the post office and reverently handed the package to a clerk, who unceremoniously stuffed it into a shopping cart and distractedly ordered me to have a nice day. I shut the gold box for the last time and laid it into a bigger, blander box, a Priority Mail shipping label from Los Angeles to Boston its only decoration.
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