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there is always something (why I shoot film)

There are maybe ten shots left on the roll. Outside the metro, a collection of pigeons sit on minuscule ledges above two old men. They talk as all old men do, with operatic waves of their hands, sour expressions, belly laughs, eventually scratching their chins as they stare off at nothing in particular. I am pretending to take pictures of something near them, then swing across when they are not looking to shoot a few frames. At one point I surrender to the afternoon and move on.

And now, the courtyard that leads to the film lab. A great old building rests here, a school of architecture where students mill around dressed in black sucking on cigarettes with giant portfolios tucked under their arms. A young man approaches me. I am ready to tell him I have no idea what he is saying, but he wants to know where the film lab is. I jut my chin, telling him the door is just beyond a few bushes. He nods his thanks.

There are screens set up in a jagged line, sheathed in filthy white plastic to …

proof and blankets


She pads to the bedroom door, waiting in silence.
"I can't." E says, tears rolling down her cheeks. "I tried but I can't."
I hold her, then stand with her face burrowed into my shoulder. She slumps against me, and the sounds do come.
I walk the L-shaped hallway, turning in the kitchen, stepping once into the living room to see the moon hanging low outside the windows then back.
"You didn't have a dream?" I ask her quietly.
Her head shakes no.
"I just can't sleep." She mutters, then lets out a sigh.

I sit on the couch, wrap a blanket around both of us and rest her face on my shoulder.
In the silence, I hear her breathing, the rabbit speed of her heart.


It was in autumn, on those first cold nights. The fighting had swollen into all-day affairs. The screaming would overlap cooking dinner, me getting E to sleep, to stomping around in pajamas. The neighbors must have been so tired of this, waiting to see if it would be another night of threats and accusations, of venom and bile.
This is when I stopped sleeping on the couch and graduated to the back seat of the Mini Cooper. I would wrap myself in that giant green blanket and wedge my feet into the space between the front seats. It was cold, my breath hanging in the air. As the sun came up I would sneak back inside to be sure E saw me when she woke, on the couch as if I had been there all night.



When we picked up E on the way back from the airport last week she looked taller to me. Perched in the middle of the back seat she spoke in giant sentences, about a new story she was working on about a girl called Emily Tundlekind. She froze then, realizing she had left the notebook upstairs and would not be able to get it for a few days.

In the living room she danced around my bags, as I pulled out new clothes for her - party dresses and jeans, sweaters and polka dot shirts, scarves and mittens, cartoon underwear and shiny blue boots. 

In the kitchen I produced a giant bag of fresh bagels, slicing two and lighting the oven with a match. 
E held one up close to her face, examining it, sniffing once then again. 
"Smells good." She said, satisfied.
"Smells like home." I added.



We take a walk, to buy groceries.
E is yanking at my arm.
"Pop, look." She says, pointing up.
I look at the sky, expecting to see the moon is still out.
"A birdhouse." She announces.
A laugh jumps out of my mouth. We have lived in this apartment for four years and I never noticed it.

Later, I go into the closets and throw old clothing to the floor. A pile grows, jackets sliding off of jeans, t-shirts and old boots. They will all go downstairs in a bag and someone will take them all within a few minutes.
I want to prove I can let go of things.







Comments

liv said…
That brought a gasp - the picture of E on the escalator. She is changing, growing up. Such a beauty.

Glad you are back safe and sound.

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