I remember taking the photograph – the one they had blown up and takes pride of place in their sitting room. Four people laughing, sandwiches or soda in their hands, leaning against the trunk of an old Ford LTD in a parking lot in New York. Mum, Dad and my two younger brothers. A unit of four. They’re all in the family uniform of jeans, but with different tops. Tee-shirts for the boys, stripy top for Mum and collared shirt for Dad. His sleeves are rolled up and hair crawls out from his undone top buttons. The trunk is open so they can reach the cool-box but it’s also a shade, keeping them safe from the sun and sheltering them from the freeway above. I remember the noise, a peculiarly special New York hum. The rhythm of cars, the kerplonk-kerplonk as they cruise overhead, the sun pounding out its rays to keep in time. Horns sounding and snaps of music from car radios. A couple of guys are talking along the lot, their accents sounding like something off the TV.
I took the photo and they carried on laughing and joking but I don’t recall what about.
Four is a good number for a family and boys are easier than girls, so they said. I wish I could’ve been in the photograph with them. That it could have held us all tight. I wish that we could have framed the moment as they did the photo, stopping time, preserving us all in that happy moment.
I walked towards the car, smiling and hopeful. The laughter continued and they reflexively made a gap, parting slightly so I could reach in for a sandwich. As I stepped back the gap was closed and they all leaned in together, squishing under the trunk. I stood in the sun’s heat, looking up at the freeway above.
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