Father's Day: Photo Proof

The photo snapped after five blinks of a small red light, an electronic pulse at the center of our paired reflections. It gave us just enough time to prepare our best faces, frozen for posterity: 

I am adorable; you are enamored. 

I’m staring into my own reflection, watching yours. My smile is only half-formed. Tentative, as usual. You exude pride, satisfaction, and contentment, in your quiet way. Sequestered in that little photo booth, ensconced in the heavy teal of a fixed curtain across the back, and another pulled closed, we pulled close. In that tiny moment, we were fine.

I remember being eight years old that day. I had brushed my bangs straight, for our date, the rest of my unruly curls pulled back in a tight braid. I wore my favorite t-shirt: yellow with red piping, “ROCKY” spelled out in small, fuzzy, red iron-on letters: R O C K Y. My friends at school all loved the movie, and couldn’t resist the twisting of our family name. Mom and I thought the nickname was funny. I was so glad that you did too.

You swiveled the funny little stool around, and got the height just right. Then I sat on your lap, my feet dangling down, careful not to kick. Your long legs and slender frame offered ample room for my small self. You were four years younger than I am now! How strange, to see my adult features so clearly in yours. The creases in your smile, your half-shut eyes, collapsing for the camera just as mine do now. The thick, black arches of your brows, and that unmistakable chin. I am your child.

It’s always been “the picture of us, when I was eight”. I kept in my desk drawer for years, until a college friend gave me the tiny pewter frame. It fit so sweetly there. And thus ascended into the light, to a prominent position on my desk. By then the image was pure nostalgia.

The sight of your smile brings back your smell, your laugh, and the feel of your muscular hand gripping mine, when we walked anywhere together. Did you instruct me to sit up straight, or did I work that out myself? I’m convinced I hear your words: “Sit up tall, Melon Ball. Look right into the camera. See it? Just watch that flashing light.” My neck is stretched so tall. My posture is so unnatural. I am working hard at being a proper and confident young lady. I’m earning your smile, watching you watching me.

The writing shrouds that smile of yours.  As I dig, and dive, the deliberate dissection of our roots leaves little room for the light. Our photo deserves a shrine, elevation above the mire. A protected place, for the memory of your tenderness and affection. If I’m not careful, it will get lost in the tumult of this excavation. Buried in the muck.