THE PHOTOGRAPH

I am holding a photograph of myself from when I was two years old. I know this, not only because of the 1987 date printed on the back of the photograph, but also because of the can opener in my hand that I must have been using as some sort of a musical instrument. Maybe, it’s the large, circular piece of hard candy dangerously lunged into my mouth dripping onto the abstract painting I’m wearing that was once a white onesie. I looked like pure terror. Bags already formed under my eyes. Yet, I have no memory of this time. In the photo my mom sits on one side of a brown couch, braless, worn out, hands in the air quite literally and metaphorically. My grandmother (her mother) sits on the other side of the couch with her legs crossed. Her head is cropped out of the photo. I wonder if that was deliberate or just accidental bad framing (assuming my father took the photo). My grandmother wears an all white dress; white leather shoes with flesh colored stockings, and a matching white leather handbag. Her fabric looks expensive. It contrasts the itchy, brown fabric couch she sits on. She looked pristine. Nails manicured in a bright red color. Gold dripped from her ears, neck, wrists, and fingers. I can smell her perfume. It smelled rich. There it is... my first memory- the smell of Grandma visiting from California. Three generations of the same bloodline but we couldn’t be more different, or perhaps, so much the same.