Missed Focus
Perhaps the blurry ones that tell the story best.
As I comb through the archive of 3600 Hours I gather images for what they have in common. A little folder of blurry images here, another for all the reading, the chair, the bed, me. I break them up the way a child lines up the chickens, then the horses, and the dogs. I line them up like possibilities. How many ways to tell this story? What is the best way? Is there such a thing?
I move them from one to another. I put this one here then move it there. I ask how it is to feel now what was back then. I trace my finger along the noses of younger ones now grown. How does four years mark so much change? In her, sure, but them? I thought it slowed but no one is the same. Nostalgia fed by the knowledge they will go but we will stay.
What is it to see the world through heavy lashes? Not to reduce, but to distill. Her shape, her step, how her wild mane flows. My boys become men my daughters beautiful. Such is the way but how to bottle up with clarity everything it’s been? Impossible.
Perhaps it’s better to see memory this way, softer edges, a left over hint to be felt rather than spoken. After all it is never just one thing.
Perhaps the blurry images tell the story best; a photo essay.
