Usually I don't use this blog to post bits of my own memoir, but I felt compelled to share this.
This very cottage my brother is in the process of selling, so I spent more time there this year than I have in years.
Writing from photographs is extremely powerful. I cannot promote it enough. It seems like such a simple thing to suggest, but still profound. Not just about the photograph. Put yourself back IN it.
Ironically, I can't find this photograph right now. As I wrote it during class, I didn't write from the actual photo in front of me. And now, as I go to post it, I cannot find it. But it is clear in my mind.
However, the photo above is about how old I was in the photo from the party.
It’s an annual event. Every July, the month before Bapa was
born, we gather at the cottage. Sometimes I bring friends, as I have been doing
all summer. Often there are chosen family there – mom’s best buddies from
Kindergarten and college, and their kids, who are the closest things to cousins
we think we have.
In one photograph, I am next to Bapa. He is shirtless and
tiny, even though he was still only in his seventies. I am surprised at his
slenderness, at how worn he looks. He will live another 18 years after this
picture, but you wouldn’t know it by the image. He has his ever-famous
cigarette – non-filter Pall Mall’s – suspended from between his middle and
forefinger. The ash, as ever, is longer than what remains to smoke.
