Quiet Mountain Essays

Copyright © 2009; All Rights Reserved by Author

Snapshot
by
Suzanne Sunshower

Here’s a photo of my dad and me.
Together but apart, in separate worlds –
Dad’s strained half-smile, my stunned look.
We stand, not too close, caught in a moment.
Not my mom’s usual action shot – taken
one-handed, camera jerking – no, this
is the only photo she ever took
in which the subject seems clear. You see
a father and pretty teen-daughter, looking
unhappy, distracted. And maybe you wonder why.

I recall my dad’s wince of pain and disapproval,
the tension building – airport security guards
crowded around an x-ray box, the clear outline
of a plastic baggie on the screen. What’s that?
They demand to know, leaning closer. My father,
watching me hard, slowly begins to understand
the situation. I am trapped inside
an unbearably long breath I dare not exhale.  
Six pairs of eyes cannot discern one shape.
Yet, still, no one opens my fringed purse to see
what’s inside – the hip-huggered fourteen year-old
looks like a nice girl who would not carry drugs.
Then security tells me I can go, and I walk
into my father’s hard gaze, just when
my unsuspecting mother brightly calls out Smile –
and we both turn toward the camera.

Contributor's Notes...

Suzanne Sunshower is QME editor and administrator.  Ms. Sunshower rediscovered the '70s snapshot that is
the subject of this poem, while going through family photos after her mother's death.  She will never forget the
circumstances under which the shot was snapped.  More new poetry from Ms. Sunshower will be featured in
the collection, From the Lonely Cold, forthcoming from Scurfpea Publishing.