I have a picture of you before you were two. You are in blue shorts that matched your shirt. Matched your eyes.. Blonde curls in your hair.
You are squatting balanced with your hand on a mosaic of the sun. Your smile is so full. Your eyes squinting back into the real sun..
At that moment life was perfect. I was holding the camera. Aiming it at you.
Watching your joy through the perfect lens of young motherhood
and utter and complete love.
Words so big they are forbidden in poetry.
We need to show not tell.
So I show you reaching for my hand to help you up.
Show you whisper the word, “sunnnnnnnnn” as if you’re in love with the sound of it.
The breeze on such a warm day.
The roses on the vine behind you.
Their sweet scent drifting and whirling around us.
Beyond that the banyans lean toward the ocean and sway their limbs inviting us to climb.
In this perfect world no one ever cheats and lies. No one gets divorced or violent. No one holds delusions. No one becomes addicted to heroin. And no one dies.
In this world, no one wants anything more than to be encircled around the neck by a tiny blue eyed boy who sings the word “mommy”.
Photographs are the ghosts we hold in our hands. I sometimes wonder if they're happier there, than in that in-between place where we can't see them at all. The stories die with the photographer, though, and all we have is that shadow left, so maybe not. This is beautifully written, as are all of your pieces.