And my dad wanted us to hurry.
He worked the night shift.
Sweat on his forehead evidenced his
displeasure with rising sun.
35 mm in his hands. Steel-toed boots on pavers.
My mother stuffed another box of Kleenex in my
backpack. Gritted the metal teeth. Ready?

Ready. Her hands on my shoulders.

Take another one. Josh wasn't smiling.
Dad winded the film.

I don't want to smile.

My mother stuck her fingers into my mouth
pulling opposite and up.
And her fingers tasted like
the musty pages in the books without pictures.