While rummaging through the hallway closet
today, I found an old photo album. I flipped
through the pages, but stopped at one particular
picture from 1943 that entranced me. I stared
and stared, as if looking at it for a long time
might enable me to step into the picture and
create a different future for the people being
photographed, my mom, twenty, my dad,
twenty-four, and myself, two years old.
My parents were on their knees, looking
over the top of a wooden playpen, smiling
broadly at the camera. They exuded happiness
and contentment. My mom wore a blueprint
dress; my dad sported a white shirt open
at the neck, a necktie with white stripes
on a blue background. He had pulled
the necktie, though knotted, away from his nick,
and the tie hung loose like a rebellious comment
against formality. My diaper drooped, revealing
an innie belly button. My half smile had just begun
to form when the photographer took the picture.
I studied the photo as if searching for reasons
why my parents’ marriage collapsed when
I was twelve years old, why my dad drank himself
into paralyzing stupors, why my parents couldn’t stay
as joyful and elated as they were in the photo.
It was clear to me that next to posing for the camera,
I was their primary focus. They were proud of me,
gratified to have a baby. That was a truth completely
obvious from the expression on their faces.
I was part of a beginning for them, a lead-in toward
becoming a successful family. The photo evoked
sadness, regret, and a profound despair in me.
I closed the album, slumped to a window,
let the soft light of late afternoon drift across my face
and the things of family I could not change.
