In this picture we stand in a ditch, on a path that fellows and families take to distract themselves and their feet from the diurnal affairs before nightfall — by then they begin to settle and finally, rather than put it off, they can dream.
It was my mother who adjusted my ill fitting shirt in the midst of a photograph not meant to be taken. Pictures — they can be a beautiful thing but we shared a special dislike for them, my mother and I — such things can be inherited. By my part, they could never capture what the eye could; a picture was nothing — so I told my mother when I refused to even take my senior photo. By my mother's part, the camera had never been partial to her looks.
But that day, a photoshoot ensued after my mother 's eight hour workday, for the tropical flowers which lit the popular walking path. I told her that I needed pictures of them for my poems to post on my website (she decided this meant that it was for a school project. I didn't mind that she thought we were doing something productive. As if at the end of the day, our work would pay off, I'd get a good grade, or it would even matter).
We searched for the most accessible vines starting with the passionflower of purple-indigo corona and yellow-orange fruit that had once come recommended to her by a fellow foot-distractor on this very path. I came to know the plant myself when my mother brought me one of those curious flowers to see one day. I remember it well, I put the flower in the fridge hoping that it might preserve. It did not, but I still had my memory.
I still remember, remembering the flower: it's curiosity still with me one day of senior year in highschool. I was in a meeting (rather, they had put me in a meeting). They, the people I met, presented a program: financial help for college or something (I really don't remember, I was quite preoccupied). As they spoke about career pathways, I wrote in my notebook about the passionflower. I tried not to think about college because it meant I'd have to think about decisions.
Sleeplessness — that's what the foot-distractor said the passionflower and fruit was good for — restlessness, anxiety, insomnia, and in my case it was good for daydreaming. The brain tends to get ahead of the day. Before the feet can even pace, the mind runs. I needed not, a path to walk to distract myself. The same way that my mother did not even need shoes as a little girl to dream that if she ran, she’d make it over the hills of Mexico in no time. Where to? She had not decided, again, such things could be inherited (even if her daughter did have two shoes).
When the passion flower had been photographed from every angle, there was still the buganvilla of purple, pink, orange, and white to visit. And then even distractions could have distractions. I realized I had not one photo of myself to present on my own website. When walking past buganvillas and verbenas, I gained the courage to ask my companions for a picture of myself. I placed myself between the setting sun and the flowers, to pose for a portrait.
My sister was the photographer. I stood awkwardly smiling with my hands to my side for I knew not how to pose — my sister took the first picture. And then my mother slipped into frame as I was going for a ‘hands in the pockets’ moment — my sister took the second picture.
Then finally, in the third picture, I smiled my true smile because — surely there's no question about it — we know not how to photograph nor be photographed. My mother had her hands on my shirt, and I had my hands on my shirt. She adjusted the shirt, and I clung to the fabric. So I looked at the camera. I knew that it had seen what I had. I knew that it knew me, even if I did not know me. My mother adjusted me, even if I could not adjust me.
Now, through the picture I hear my laughter, through my laughter I hear my mother. Pictures can be a beautiful thing — and such distractions could make one realize.