The Photo

I have a photo of a man whose name I don’t know. I stand on an unearthed sidewalk outside a filthy white fence I have never seen before. Finding a rotted gap between the slats, I strain to see through the cobwebs at what lies beyond. 2115. I turn the picture over- 2115. This is it.

I begin to step towards the gate, inching through the knee high weeds, my faded blue Keds shoving ancient broken beer bottles further into the ground. The cracking of the glass reminds me of those school nights when I would retreat to my room to do my homework as my mom began her routine. One bottle. Two, three, four. Sobbing. Pause. A shatter. Silence. I used to tip toe down the stairs, careful not to let them groan as if any sound would destroy the long awaited calm. “Mommy?” I would ask. “Not now,” was all she would say.

Now, after burying these shards in the dirt, I pause right in front of the latch and lift the photo to my face. I know what this man looks like. I could draw you a perfect copy with my eyes closed I have studied him so many times. Since I found it six years ago in my mother’s make-up drawer, covered by tubes of lipstick and eye shadow dust, I have looked at it every night before I went to bed. The man’s youthful smile connects his two dimples on his round cheeks. His thick mustache sits perfectly trimmed under his straight nose. Blocking the sun in the picture is his bushy brown hair that rests on his eyelashes.

There has always been a weird sense of familiarity that reaches the back of my throat and hovers, not budging for hours after I look at the picture. Sometimes, I think I can remember that man; singing to me at night, or pushing me on the porch swing. But then I realize I’m being ridiculous. I’ve never seen him off this glossy picture paper. Have I looked at him so many times that my mind has begun fabricating memories to satisfy my confusion?

I suddenly find myself inside the fence; farther than I ever planned on getting. The picture is creased from my anxiety and I can feel my grip tighten even more as I realize just how close the front door is. Another twenty steps? How far to the gate? Ten? I want to take the easy way out, turn right back around and get to the other side of the street as quickly as I can- recoil from discovery, and nestle into uncertainty, but my burning curiosity rages inside of me.

Five steps. Who are you!

Ten steps. Why did she have a picture of you!

Fifteen steps. Why can’t I erase you from my mind!

My heart feels inhuman thumping so hard it makes me sick. It’s intensity climbing with each step up the porch.

Twenty steps. Please don’t open the door.

It swings open inward so suddenly that the picture is swiped from my hand and my extraordinary grip, taking with it any breath, fear, or longing I have ever had. Staring right into those eyes that I have studied so many times before, with only a sheet of thin criss-crossed wires separating the reality, my cheeks dimple to match his. I know the answer.

Dad.