October, 1993

It makes me wonder where you were that day. Did you say goodbye to your children? Did you kiss your wife? I know you had coffee, probably in the living room where the lances of light cascade through the windows. You were reading, I'm sure of it. Graham Greene or Chomsky, the LA Times or maybe a verse from the bible, something poetic and mournful. But what did you do right before this photograph? Was God just behind your shoulder or was that me? One town over I was born the year before, crying in the arms of a temporary mother. I knew then I’d become your son. I knew then what challenges lay ahead. You were thinking my name right before the flash, those inescapable mechanics of measuring time, you spoke my name and sealed our fates at the same moment. Did you dream of me? Standing over my shoulder now, 30 years later as I write this, and we are both looking at your picture thinking the same thoughts. Did you dream of a mirror? I believe you saw me in your reflection and cried crystal tears, and your tears nourished the garden in which I grew, and you plucked me and thanked me and loved me…Then you awoke and the flash was seen, the inexorable mechanism heard, and trapped forever was your face in mine, and mine in yours.