The photographer snapped shot after shot — Belle gazing upward at a drifting petal, Preston blinking in confusion, the cherry blossoms glowing in the background. And, behind them in the distance, a tall man in casual clothing strolled into the frame. He was relaxed, hands tucked into his pockets, head tilted just enough to catch the beauty around him.
After finishing the session, they thanked the photographer, who assured them that the photos had come out beautifully. Belle skipped ahead toward a bench under one of the fullest cherry blossom trees, and Preston chased a falling petal like it was a butterfly. The day felt warm, joyful, uncomplicated.
Only then, as they sat down to rest, did Portia remember her husband’s odd whisper.
“What was it you said before the pictures?” she asked.
He hesitated for a long second, rubbing the back of his neck with a bewildered expression.
“I don’t want to sound crazy,” he said slowly, “but… I think that was President Obama.”
Portia froze. “What? No… you’re joking.”Continue reading…
