Look Ahead, Look Behind

 The little girl with straight blonde hair at the edge of the rocks

What is the little girl looking for?
I notice she could fall
The possibility of it 
No one is watching but me
A man, likely her dad, is holding a baby
walking slowly around the top of the hill

How did she climb down to the edge of the rocks?
Is she 8?

I was 22 that day I saw her

Where does the girl belong?
The girl belongs everywhere

I see secureness in her
She is steady in that spot
looking out at the never-ending lake of possibilities
heep of rocks jutting up behind her
danger of how to crawl over the jagged edges
how to get back to her family and go somewhere else

I saw myself in her 

I took the photograph of her in 1999
a piece for my final exhibit in a journalism class
last semester of my journey at NMSU
The image was captured on the nikon camera i did not take care of
the one where i developed all of my own photos in the dark room
telling Sterling, my professor, about the end of my parents' marriage
It was easier for me to talk to him than my best friends and roommates
what job would i take?
What city would I live in?
How could I survive these deaths of who they are
of who i am?

I taped too many photos, probably 15, to the wall
in that final semester photography exhibit
fluff, filler, plus the necessary ones float in my memory today
a photo of my brown shoes in autumnal leaves, my bright blue
geo storm with the hot pink stripe parked in my childhood home driveway
the golden angel from our Christmas tree, my husband and I now put it on ours
The one with my slightly smiling mom in her white lace top and zebra print overshirt in Old Mesilla in Las Cruces. 
At 22, I was sometimes critical of her aging body and my own even then. 
Today, I am proud to use this striking solo image of my beautiful mom in our book of poetry
alongside the one of me holding her hands tight on our back porch in Alamogordo,
my dad must have held my camera - he must have been jealous at times over our bond.

I know now, 46, the first photo of the little girl was the story of me, her, she was and is
 everything
secure in the spot of openness and surrounded by thoughts of how to maneuver danger
disturbed yet serene and grateful
how much life can a child hold on her shoulders 
letting go over decades, always returning to the rocks?

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