Photograph—Summer 1956

Abstract

My father, in an old straw hatwon at the county fair, stands,thigh deep in a trench, leaningon his shovel, dirt more rockthan soil piled high on either side.He's been digging now for weeks,blisters bleeding on his hands, sweatdarkening the back of his plaid shirt,the crack of his shovel striking stonepercussive accompaniment to the humof cicadas in the trees along the creek,digging trenches for the wasteline from our new house— completely framed, waiting for winter, when he'll run electric lines, his breath so thick with cold he'll doubt the truth of this photograph—and down the hill to wherethe hulking grey formof the septic tank stands,waiting for him to digthat hole, too.My sister and I,bored with wadingin the creek, with catchinggrasshoppers that spit strangebrown liquid on our hands,with plucking purple centersfrom Queen Anne's Lace,with this endless summerand nothing for us to doexcept watch our father diguntil it's time to go hometo the place we knowwe'll soon have to leave,retrieve our Brownie camerasfrom the car's backseat, kneelon a pile of dirt and press themtight against our waists,as we've been taught, squint downinto the clear square of convex glassand see our father, smiling from beneaththe brim of that old straw hat, the gapbetween his front teeth, from this angle,wide as the trench in which he stands,smiling beyond us to somethingwe cannot see. This, then, is boththe future and the past,my brown-stained hands so steadyas the shutter clicked that the blurry lineof separation completely disappeared.