My Favourite Pictures of You

There's a picture of you. Your two year old self is playing with waterproof toys in the bathtub. You have six teeth in your mouth and you're very busy creating all sorts of splash storms and bubble trouble.

There's a picture of you decked in saffron marigolds. Decked in gold, with red patterns on your hands. There is a betel leaf in your palm and his mother is busy smearing it with henna. The smile on your face is wider than an ocean, but the smile in your eyes is building bridges into the woman's heart. The possible fragility of these bridges is something you're just starting to worry about.

There is a picture of you lounging on a sofa. You are in some book shop in Lisbon but you're busy reading the hard lines on your hands. You are counting the divisions on your fingers with concentration so fierce it seems you are studying, in depth, works of Tolstoy or Dostoevsky rather than going over familiar paths. Next to your foot is a spilled cardboard cup of coffee.

There is a picture of the back of your head. You are sitting in front of your computer. The words on the screen are blurred and illegible. The date indicates that the photo is two years and almost five months old. Judging from that time, you must have been writing an e-mail. Or better yet a poem. Rhyme used to be your choice of expression then.

There is a picture of you with your hair in your face while you're playing a blue electric guitar. You've got a mad look on your face and you're beaming at the girl standing with the keyboards right next to you. She's singing happily. The songs you've taught her. You are more proud of her that moment than you've ever been of anyone before. What a woman she's become.

There is a picture of you wearing over-sized sunglasses and beach shorts. Standing in front of a homemade birthday cake with dripping raspberry pink and apple green frosting, you are holding up the cake knife like a sword, trying to scare your parents. The joy on your face is priceless. It's the irreplaceable joy of turning six years old.

There is a picture of you asleep. Unaware, perhaps, or dreaming.

There is a picture of you wearing black lace, velvet and f aux diamonds. Your back is towards your bathroom mirror. Your voluminous black hair reaches your waist and you resemble a goddess painted on a Greek urn. You bring light into my atmosphere.


Photographs. Distorted versions of the truth maybe? Bound in albums and frames and frozen forever.