I carry a large white envelope in the crook of my left arm.
“Photographs of me,” I whisper to my Friend.
The trees and rocks appear crisp and solid. My face is in none of the photographs on the polished tables in the living room and hanging on the wall above the stairs. Neither do I appear in the family photograph that resides in a golden frame in next to the woman’s bed.
The man is sitting on the porch.
“Look, Daddy,” Claire says. “We got our school pictures.”
She shoves her envelope into the man’s hand.
“Did you bring me anything?” Ames and Charles demand.
“You’re home early,” Eve says.
“I finally sold the garage.” His voice is gruff. “I deserve a little time off.”
He strokes Claire’s hair, “Let’s see what you’ve got!”
He reviews each child’s photographs. Finally, he peers at my prints for a long moment.
“You could be a model when you grow up,” he says.