Photographs
Unity Books in Wellington.
I have one photograph of my mother and me. In black and white.
The two of us sitting on the bench of a boat ferrying tourists across the Adriatic Sea. To one of its islands. I don’t remember which. It was summer. My mother is wearing her hair up and oversized sunglasses. She is pretty. Very pretty. Like the actresses in La Dolce Vita. In a sleeveless linen shift and a matching cotton cardigan with only a top button. My mother is facing away from me. She is watching the sea frothing on her left. I am grinning into the camera on the right. Maybe seven. I don’t know who took the photo. It couldn’t have been my father. They divorced two years earlier. My skinny legs dangling from the edge of a wooden bench. Feet encased inside open-toe sandals. I am wearing a jersey and a sailor’s hat.
I’ve many photographs of my daughter and me. In colour.
The two of us sleeping in my bed. Our noses almost touching. Her two little fists up by the ears. In front of a cake with a single candle stuck in the middle. My face squeezed into the powdered folds of her neck. Her father had taken the photograph. It was our last year together. She is wearing denim overalls and a t-shirt with Barney on its front. Feet inside red and blue socks. The two of us grinning into each other’s faces in front of a sign with the words the University of Otago on it. She is wearing a bright yellow dress under black robes. She is pretty. Very pretty. Like sunlight. When she died, I sent our only photograph to my mother. Inside a piece of paper folded in half. The old photograph’s pale edges smeared by freshly bleeding words. A dirge.
