The Photo

My imagination tells me that it was a warm spring Saturday morning. You can see the diffused sunlight that has been fractured by the clouds. The picture shows green grass and my Dad and I in short-sleeves. I don’t remember when or where this picture was taken. I do know it captures a time when everything was new and unspoiled.

I was maybe four years old and my Dad was probably in his early thirties, a little bit older than I am now. His hairline is beginning it’s journey into oblivion and his waistline is in the beginning stages of the bowl of jelly it would become. I am standing in his Navy duffel bag as he begins to lift me up. My eyes are full of wonder and awe that a boy has for his father at his age.

This photograph always makes me wonder what it felt like. I have made up my own stories and thought to go with the image. I know for sure it was a different time. I think of how much regret and angst had passed between us since that picture was taken. We never quite lived up to the expectations that we had for each other.

Now it is almost thirty years later, but we stand forever hopeful in that photograph. When I think about what I would take with me if I had to leave, and could only take a handful of things, I don’t know if this would be the first thing that I reached for. I do know that if I didn’t take it I would forever regret not having it with me.

The picture came into my possession only a year and a half ago. I found it as I thumbed through an old photo album while I was home to attend my father’s funeral. I could probably ask for more details about the picture, like when and where it was taken, but I prefer to keep the story in my head. I keep it as a secret shared between my dad and me.