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An Album
by Earl Coleman

This snapshot, Dieter, surely you recall the circumstance, that little park? The picture now is grainy as that grainy time. The print’s a yellowing uncertainty, imparting nothing but a negative and positive to one’s impression of the prisoner I was at ten, framed here between two pictures of our mother shooting and our father being shot. Maybe you were whittling your name on trees to testify you were alive and there. In any case you’re not in this. We always find the secret of our past lies in the quality of light we shine today that redefines, brings line and shadow into sight. I might as well be eating bitter herbs in this. The print can’t show her malice, nothing could; her vetch in beds of primrose that surprised. I squinted here. I always did in too much sun, and yet perhaps I feared the nightshade of her deadly smile. The picture offers nothing of myself, except my ten-ness at the time. Too bad. There was a notable eclipse of spirit there in contrast to the peaceful sunny scene. I’ve lost the bluesy music of that moment now although the lyrics are as vivid as they were. Shall we go on and turn another page? We age. Let’s ease each other over this terrain, for here’s a shot of you, and clearly you’re in trouble once again.