Portrait of a Man and His Daughter

Portrait of a Man and His Daughter

Krysta Walker

In this photograph, we are sitting on the porch swing that sat on the patio in our backyard. You are smiling, that tired smile you get after you've worked a long day but still wanted to spend time with us. I have my small arms wrapped around your wide middle. My face is buried in your chest; a smile missing two front teeth is stretching my face. Your arms were around my shoulders. I was 12 years younger and had no knowledge of endings. There is no inclination of how fleeting life can be, no shadow of grief darkening my features, no death lurking in every corner of our house. There is only you and I, sitting on a broken porch swing with our arms wrapped around each other.

Here, you are alive. Here, I am young, innocent, smiling.

Happy.

In this photograph, I don’t miss you because you have never left. I don’t think about how life could’ve been because there is no other way life could be.

In this photograph, you are smiling. You are wide at the middle, full of wonderful evenings at the dinner table with your family. Not thin in a hospital bed. Here, your face is clear, glowing with life. Your smile is not obstructed by tubes. Your arms are strongly wrapped around me, shielding me from inevitable heart ache. Not limp on top of hospital sheets.

This is how I’ll remember you, in this photograph.