Before the flash

 

"Before the Flash"

I don’t remember the moment,
but my body does.
The warmth of your arm, the careful grip,
like holding something precious
you weren’t sure how to keep.

They say I cried before this picture,
my curls stuck damp on flushed cheeks —
but then you lifted me,
wrapped me in your still-shirted arms
like a meeting between
office hours and lullabies.

You smiled for the flash.
I didn’t.
Not yet. Because even then,
I think I knew:
this wasn’t forever.

Not the clean white couch,
not the golden lamp above,
not even us.

You, with your CEO calm,
smelling of ink, leather, and airport mornings,
were a giant in my baby world —
but not the one who changed my diapers
or knew the lullaby routine.

You were
“special moment” love.
Pressed shirts.
Weekend visits.
Picture-frame pride.

I was the second.
A soft echo after a job.
A daughter between love and distance,
between nursery toys and grown-up silence.

But I saw you.

Even in this photo —
one shoe falling, lip uncertain —
I wanted you to know
I was there.
Feeling everything.

Now, decades later,
I write you poems.
I call you papi.
I admire you.

But I still carry
the tiny weight of that day:
half a tear, half a hope,
and a picture
where love wore a suit
and a baby asked for more.