Kevin Grauke
Documentation
My son asks his wife to take his picture
with me, something he’s never asked for
before when he’s come home for a visit.
He has plenty of us together, but only as part
of those family portraits meant to document
significant events—graduations, marriages . . .
Aunts and uncles are always present, as are
odd cousins. But this backyard photo is to be
only us. He puts his arm around my shoulder
and pulls me tight. He’s so strong now.
I can feel him smiling, waiting for his wife
to capture us for all time. I smile, too,
but my mouth, it breaks a little.
Have I reached that age already,
when next time is always in some doubt?
For the very first time, I see the darkness.
Its smoke dims the light of the sun a bit.
I see my son, too—in the future, older.
Looking at this memory, at me smiling
next to him here, he’s comforted now
that I’m gone. He did well as a son.
He’ll know this. I’ll have told him
many times. I hold my smile, ignoring
the shape gathering itself just above
his wife’s head as she centers us. I’m glad
you took this, my son will say. Just look
at you two! she’ll add. Indeed, just look at us.
We must look so happy. Big smiles,
she says now, smiling, too, showing us
how to do it. My son pulls me closer still.
I smile bigger, though my cheeks ache
and quiver. Soon, this will be over,
but right now, this is it, everything.
