#11 (243 words)

That’s me: the crooked hairline, the tender and slight swell of a new, second chin, the scars.  Or it looks like me.  There’s my red sweater I seem to have on in every picture.  Why is my smile so hard, so thin?  I hate being photographed.  I hate looking at myself glossy and flat. 

Have you ever heard that in some cultures it’s believed that pictures steal the soul?  I have a slightly different take on this belief; that when a camera is aimed in my direction I feel so awkward and ugly, that my soul is pushed out of the shot.  There’s no room for it.

I see my eyes.  It was cold that day and I was sad because there’d been no sun for a few days.  And I was jealous- stuffed between brothers and sisters and aunts, uncles, our grandparents and parents- of the joy of those others at perserving a memory which wasn’t really perserved.  Because I haven’t seen most of them for four years.  Because I don’t recall why we were all together then, or what was said. 

I keep them all in a box covered with a vintage purse design.  Mom on top of Scruffy.  An old crumpled picture of Dad in his uniform, yellowing at the edges.  My brother’s first car.  My first day of kindergarten.

All meaningless but here, taking up space, taunting me to look.  To remember.

To remember how awful I look through life.


~ by c on January 13, 2009.

One Response to “#11 (243 words)”

  1. i rejoice to see you.
    even when you pain me 😉

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