I wait until the rest of the family walks away from your grave before I pick up the photo. You, sitting on a tree stump, staring at the camera. The look. Quizzical, a swirling prankster galaxy in your irises. I told you when I took this picture if you ever left me I’d hunt you down. And now here we are.
I stretch the opposite corners of the photo so now it’s wider than me and taller. Your face stretches like bubble gum. I step over the photo border, into your face. Once I’m inside the picture, everything opens up—fields of green and blue, yellow polka dotted sky, the ever-present aroma of lilies. Which is unfortunate. Everyone knows lilies smell like death.
When I look behind me, I see your face in reverse still staring out the photo, still stretched like bubble gum. I always wonder what happens to the photo once I step through. Does it snap back to its original size? When the gravediggers come will they set it respectfully against your gravestone?
Step One. I’m in the basement. Your model train set is unfurled along a wood plank balanced on horses. The horses are snorting. Digging their hooves into the cement floor. You placed all your tools in their proper places. The conductor in the lead train car waves a plastic wave. You were here but it’s been a while.
Step Two. Now I’m in the passenger seat of the Pinto station wagon. Bob Collins is on WGN. A half-smoked Pall Mall burns in the ashtray. The driver’s side door is open. We’re parked at the gas station. The gas hose sways languidly out of the gas tank. I see it in the driver’s side side mirror. You were just here.
Step Three. Now I’m in the hardware store. This aisle is packed with things that screw into other things. A spectrum of sizes. Round safety mirrors in the ceiling corners. Buzz of busy conversation fills up the air but no one’s here. Empty aisles. Empty checkouts. Suddenly a flash—the flick of that ratty coat you refused to toss. I follow. I shout.
“Listen motherfucker I told you if you ever left me I’d hunt you down and now. Here. We. Are.”
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