(FREE STUFF – MEMOIR)

I have a photo of myself.

I know it’s me, but still I flip it over to read the four tiny perfect red-inked letters I know are there.

Kris

My mother’s handwriting makes me cry, which is just insane.

I hold the photo in my palm, image down.

A white square … the reverse of me … claimed by her tiny perfect lettering.

When I flip the photo, there I am.

I run my finger along the white border, caress the last vestiges of glue that once held this photo to its negative.

I am wearing an orange and white striped long-sleeved shirt whose orange turtleneck is stretched and misshapen. I remember the feel of this shirt, a thick dense fabric with surprising give … I remember how the neck shaped tightly around my head and then released its tension as I pulled it down. I remember that the wrists were solid orange like the collar, and I would fold them up when they got dirty, hoping to be able to wear this fabulous shirt another day.

My hair is not quite to my shoulders, slightly disheveled.

My hands are clasped low in front of my body, out of the frame.

I am smiling.

Most of the photos I have that were taken in that tiny house on McCagg Street are impossibly dark. The Polaroid camera we had at the time was not equipped for darkened rooms. The flash lit the foreground … caught and over-exposed the pale faces of the children being photographed … but then left the background shrouded in shadows.

This photo is different.

I stand against a golden yellow wall.

I got to pick the color of the paint for this room I shared with my sister, and I chose a shiny golden yellow. I remember it being the color of sunshine, but in this photograph it looks more like the yolk of a perfect raw egg. The yellow of the wall has helped the camera, and the glare of the flash has been softened … diffused.

Behind me is the lower right quarter of an enormous fat owl my mother painted on the wall for me.

I loved that owl.

I wish that I could see its face in this photograph. My mother painted the owl’s face exactly as I asked her to paint it. Wise and thoughtful and protective, up there on the wall of my bedroom. With big solemn eyes and a triangle for a beak.

I wish I could remember who took this photograph … my mother or my father.

I want to remember that it was my mother who held the camera up to capture this moment. I want to remember her freckled face hidden behind the camera. I want to remember the thick glossy auburn of her hair as she shifted and focused on her daughter. I want to remember her voice … “Smile, Kris! That’s perfect. Just like that.” I want to remember that her thin artistic fingers pushed the button to take the photo. That those same fingers grasped and pulled the sealed instant photo from the camera’s body.

I want to remember that we laughed together as she tucked the photo into her armpit and we counted to sixty. Warming it and giving it time to develop. I want to remember the count … the time spent waiting.

I want to remember how she peeled away a corner to check if the image was ready.

I want to remember how she peeled away the damp smeared backing and then waved the finished photo in the air.

I want to remember how she knelt and I approached … how we stared together at the photo.

I sit on my couch many years later and run my finger around the white-edged square.

I want that moment.

But I do not have that moment.

Here’s what I have instead.

The same golden wall.

Me.

The photographer’s face obscured.

The photographer’s hair.

“Smile, Kris! That’s perfect. Just like that.”

The photographer’s fingers.

A button pushed.

A sealed photo grasped and pulled from the camera.

Time spent waiting.

A corner peeled.

An image revealed.

Kneeling and approaching … staring together at the photo.

An impossibly tiny me low on an endless yellow background … a huge sad owl above my head.

“Let’s try that one more time.”

“I don’t want to.”

“One more time. I just want a picture of your smile. I’ll come closer this time.”

The same golden wall.

Me.

My hair not quite to my shoulders, slightly disheveled.

My hands clasped low in front of my body.

My smile forced.

“Jesus Christ … I’m not going to hurt you. I am only trying to take your picture. Would you relax?”

My hands drop to my sides.

I widen my smile.

A flash of light.

Diffused and softened by the shiny yellow wall.

Silent time passes.

A corner peeled.

An image revealed.

He smiles and tucks the photos into his shirt pocket.

Folds and crumples the damp negatives.

I look at him beseechingly.

He nods.

I remember how the neck shaped tightly around my head and then released its tension as I pulled it on.