In this one, you are holding your knees. You’re an old man, or you look old. But you’re not sitting in a chair like the rest of the grownups. You’re sitting on the floor, hard leather shoes, socks, trousers, your arms gripped around your knees.
My sisters are three and one in the picture, which means you’d be about sixty, about my age now, but you look so old. Your head sports a few wispy white hairs and your skin is like ash.
It’s a jolly family photo taken by your brother. (I deduce this because he’s not in the picture.) It’s probably Christmas at the house in Stouffville, and you’re probably home for the holiday.
What must that have been like for you?
There’s a lot of smiling in the picture. My mother is holding the baby, quite close to you. Were you disturbed by the baby? Her fussing? Her goobers? Or did you even notice her?
Beside my mom, on the floor is my uncle, your nephew. He has on a wide striped t-shirt, which he probably got for Christmas. And he’s wearing a wide grin.
Seated behind you in a row are my father, my grandmother, my sister (standing on Granny’s knee), and my two great-grandparents, your parents.
You are home. Home from the mental hospital where these people think it best that you live. You’d resided in the hospital most of your life, ever since coming back from Europe after the war.
It feels like you think of yourself as a young man with a life yet to live. (I feel like that some days.) You are hugging your knees and rocking like my teenage uncle. Thinking, none of these people know anything about me. Taut. Strung like an arrow in a bow. Ready to spring to your feet and run out the door, To hell with you all! And let the door slam.
But then you’ll miss dinner. And you probably don’t get food like that very often. Turkey and stuffing and cranberries. Better to sit still. To stay with the family. To smile a shy smile at the camera as it snaps your life away.