Portrait of My Father as a Young Man

You can’t be older than seven or eight when I see you smiling with your mother, leaning against the pillows of two twin beds pushed together in some tiny apartment in Queens. Your hands are her hands, tangled in movement. The awkward gestures of love, of play. You don’t know what this means to me. The bare white walls of wherever you are, like the walls of my first apartment with N. Your mother’s head against the pillow, looking up at you, raised slightly above her, and the beauty here is that you never look away. Your hair buzzed clean, your big ears, sleeveless undershirt, striped boxers. I want to reach for your ankle, soft and white, wrestle you off the bed, then pull you up again, your hands reaching for mine. But I shouldn’t enter the frame any further. I know I am not welcome here, but I need to know who is holding the camera. This feels impossible, that there could be anyone else on the other side. I can’t see what you’re holding, and this part is just pretend, but I can almost see you running into the room, out from nothing. Where were you today, when I wanted to say I missed you? Saltwater seeping through your clothes on the subway, stepping into the shower, alone. Rubbing your hands across the mirror-steam to see yourself more clearly. That innocent laughter calls us into the other room. Is this how I was meant to know you? Two lights glowing at the edges, just out of the frame. Lamp-lit and warm. Your hands, your bodies—moving.