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Snapshot: Marie, Pickerel Lake Fire, Pickerel Lake: August 3, 1998
Marie looks stunned. She turns towards the camera unsure whether to smile or frown. She is brilliant, outlined in green growth and black skeletons. We haven’t been here for two years; we haven’t been on the same continent in as long.
This is only a rest stop. We are hunting for the blueberries that spring up after forest fire. Her hands, if you look closely, are blue with juice. My lips are stained violet, but I am holding the frame in place, away from the all-telling lens. The quick swim has not erased the telling signs of indulgence.
Two years ago the ground here was toasted like a marshmallow: crispy grey until our feet slid into the soft new ashes. The soil should have made cracking noises, not the silent shifting of a down blanket. The ground was still warm, the fire only out six days. We took our shoes off and tempted fate. We walked away, faces black, our soles/souls intact.
And now we are here again. The pines have shed their toasted seeds. The grass reaches up, over our heads, the saplings tickle our knees, our armpits. Fireweed decorates the foreground, pink delicacies that have watched us explore, swim in the icy August runoff.
Snapshot: Templado de la Sagrada Familia, Barcelona, Espana: October 22-6, 1998
One hundred years after Gaudi started building, the Templado is still unfinished. The scaffolding hugs the spindly walls. High above towards the sky, towards God, there are flowers frozen in the stones.
It is late in the day. The waning sun washes colour into pale blue, flat grey. I have come here to look again and to find my way myself. I have walked for three hours, around in circles to get here. There is sweat on my face, holding the lens, and my hands shake with fatigue. I want to find the perfect stone that will say, this is Gaudi.
When Mereme and I were here three years ago I was struggling to find her language. We had discarded the dictionary, instead playing mother and daughter. She bought me postcards and coke and a bocadio, and I shared broken stories and mangled jokes. We strolled through the streets until the fountains sparkled under heavy night-lights, and the flowers and jugglers were replaced by transvestites and prostitutes. On the bus home we were silent.
This day I climb to the tops of the towers and look at tiny flowers 217 steps above the street. It is late in the year.
Snapshot: Ezra and I, Edmonton, September 24, 1998
I smile over his head at the paper, my lips parted while I read the comics. Ezra stares away from the lens, from the paper, from focusing. We are sitting, light behind us, spending one moment together.
I have finally met him on this side of the world, in the world of sunlight and images, not only darkness and voices. He rests his body against mine, and I support the weight. Now and then he kicks a leg or waves a hand. I think that he is learning humour.
In April I helped his mother sort clothing and memories as she prepared to journey across the country. We held out doll sized jumpers and played names to each other. My hand placed upon her growing belly, I felt the child kick, one time, then another, flat against the palm of my hand. Your mother and I, my best friend, we mixed laughter and tears that streamed down our faces into one.
Ezra is starting to hold himself up now, and I imagine that soon he will walk. I hope he will read to me some day. He is attracted to the newsprint for a moment, then gaze off again into space.