Mornings (With You)
It's breakfast time.
You're sitting across from me.
In one hand, you're holding a spoon. In the other, a remote.
A camera sits on a tripod across from us. You’re tense. You stir your coffee. Then raise your hand to press down on the remote. The camera flashes.
You hand the remote to me.
This is how our mornings begin.
We are both at the same level, at the same starting point.
When I last saw you, Papa, I was seven.
This is a series of images we've created at your home, 20 years after we separated.
2016
Your camera sits on the table.
I ask you to take a picture of me.
Something you haven’t done since I was 7.
You start your days late, and end them even later.
The routine of a writer, a poet.
I am learning so much about you.
The little things: you like your coffee dark, but sweet.
The big things: you prefer to be alone.
You’re wearing the same sweater you wore on Monday.
I ask you to change.
“I don’t have enough sweaters for this project,” you say.
You ask me about my childhood.
All those years without you.
Where do I start?
The city I grew up in.
The school I got kicked out of.
Or the college I went to.
I don’t know what you want to hear.
It’s Friday.
I ask you to make us breakfast.
You prepare an omelet.
We eat it out of a pan, just like you do when you’re alone.
I wanted us to create this together.
In your images, I start to see what I have yet to feel.