I push the door open,
hit the lights,
watch it begin.
Your first hesitant steps taken on rosebud feet buried in the spring grass,
pudgy fingers grasping at something unseen.
Time progresses, the scene changes.
Now, rosy cheeks frame determined eyes.
Fistful of snow raised,
a mischievous grin aimed at someone just out of sight.
A closer look.
You stand tall, pale hand curled around balcony railing,
the other frantically, ecstatically motioning towards the Eiffel Tower.
Eyes turned away, you seem triumphant pointing at the skeletal thing
like Columbus pointed at the Americas.
Years later, before the fire that day in November,
you sit on a porch swing, fingers tucked neatly beneath your thighs.
You slouch.
When did you begin looking at the camera?
Your eyes are defeated, weighed down by a new knowledge.
I draw closer, lean in,
as if this would reveal what you know.
But too soon, a click.
The screen goes blank
and I am left with more questions than answers.