perpetuity , and a flimsy banner spelling out ‘ Allison Square Garden ’ hangs over them forever . In a captured moment , a sung chorus can be mistaken for a scream .
( p . 17 ) Allison visiting her dying mother , Trudy , 1985 . This photo is Trudy ’ s only cameo . Other than a guilty stance , a caring yet practiced hand on her shoulder , Allison looks like she doesn ’ t want to be there . If given the chance , I wonder if my mother would have preferred it if this was never taken . Only a dramatic and painstakingly ironic realization keeps this one in the album : that this is the only photo of her mother . They look like strangers . A make-a-wish celebrity appearance . I only met my grandmother a few times . And whether my mother liked it or not , the absence of any other photos of Trudy summarizes their relationship well enough .
( p . 18-22 ) Various snapshots of myself as a teenager : college football tryouts , a family holiday in Alberta , prom night , my high school graduation , 1989-1992 . Most of these are posed pictures . I realize now how little I care for them . As is most likely every amateur photographer ’ s first insight , the candid photo reveals so much more . If I was giving a lecture on first love , then the way my eyes absorb the delight of my prom date and first girlfriend at the exact moment that I think no one is looking at me , tells the room that teenage love is about adoration , not understanding , and I rest at the lectern unspoken – elbows down , a wry smile coiled on my face – proving my thesis with a single photograph .
My father has put on weight in the holiday pictures . My mother is unseen , on camera duty .
( p . 23-26 ) A random series of photographs , weak attempts at candid pictures documenting home life during my time at college , 1992-1995 . I ’ ve not seen these before . My parents must have revised the album in the last few years before they died . Which treasures did they get rid of to find space for these ?
They ’ re hard to describe . My father is reading his newspaper crossword on the balcony of our apartment , pen in mouth , overlooking a crowded street below . The color has disappeared from his face , and his eyebrows and cheeks sag like the limbs of that wedding tree which now seems like a history parallel to reality – distinctly familiar but not one they experienced . The
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