Thursday, June 02, 2005

Talking to the walls

All the photographs I have of my father are not enough. The photos are all imperfect. The images on paper or my mind are not him, but a link to him. They resemble him but are in ways reminders that his presence is not here, just as his presence isn’t really in the photos, just as the photos are not real. They have their use, photographs, and I love their construction, the camera, the image, the print, the success of capturing what you see or saw, or what you were. But they also tell me always that the moment is captured and gone.

I talk to my father’s photos now, one in particular in the hallway. I stop before it in the evenings, look into his eyes and say out loud that I love him, or I’m doing my best, or I miss him. What have I made him in my mind? A piece of paper with the memory of his face imprinted on it, that can hear me as if he is in the same room as me, as if he is going to respond. Or perhaps I do so to have that exchange again, to hear my voice speaking to him, saying “Dad” to him again. Although one-sided, it is comforting.

1 comment:

Sass said...

"Although one sided, it is comforting"

And the hug you need -
with out a doubt he is proud and with you. When I think about the one's I have lost, and need a second piece of advice, I talk to them (I swear it's not schizophrenia) and in that moment, I can hear their words in my head. Sometimes I have to listen extra hard, but I can hear their advice.