Lo mismo es acuestas que al hombro.
Potato, potato. Same difference. That was the word we used to say when we had to smile for the camera. The one that we haven’t spoken again, not since we realized that there will always be a difference between what actually happened and the memories we choose to keep.
Two sisters. The same summer night. One of them smiles for the camera, but she only has eyes for the fireworks above. The ones she gets to enjoy from her place of honor on her father’s shoulders. The other one tried to smile, but the light was too bright. She only remembers her father’s arm, holding her secure. In place. In herself. But this photograph shows something else. The difference the light had blinded her to. Her true place in the world.
I understand that the purpose of these photographs is to show that I am part of the world. But you could have warned me about the flash. You could have told me that I wouldn’t be able to see anything. Not even the part of the world that I don’t have my back turned on.
That flash is the price I pay for turning my back on the world whose soul I am stealing.
Having my soul stolen by that flash is a fair price to pay for having this photograph immortalize my existence. It is.
