'Polaroids When I Was Five' by Marcy Dilworth

Five-year-old me, ever helpful, struggles beneath the butt-end of Mom’s suitcase, willing it to tip into the trunk of her scratched blue Escort. Mom poses for Dad’s camera, chest out, pregnant stomach as sucked in as it can be, still round as a beach ball. There’s no picture of me, seconds later, pinned to the gravel driveway by fifty pounds of luggage. The backs of my legs bled, but I didn’t cry. Crying made my parents fight.

*

Mom let me take one picture during the car trip so I’d stop asking for a popsicle. I accidentally pushed the button before I was ready, so what I got is a shiny photo of my Spiderman shoe with Velcro instead of laces. My foot is in it too, but you can’t even tell it’s mine. I wanted to throw it away. Mom said, “No, we’ll keep that to remind you to be more careful.” Then she snatched the camera back, and no popsicle either.

*

I smile big, huge even; Mom told me to. The rest of this photo is the back of Grandma’s head, my arms clasped around her neck, and my wide eyes. What you can’t see is that Grandma smells like cough medicine and she isn’t holding onto me. Right after the snap, she bends a little and whispers, “Let go this instant.” I do, and land with a whump on the hardwood floor.

*

Here’s me, Mom and Dad, smooshed on the porch swing, laughing as we make deeper pushes up and back. I’m scared. Mom says, “Ease up,” but Dad keeps kicking off harder. What you can’t see is the creak that chain makes, the groan. After the chain snapped and the swing crunched, everybody was too busy to pick up the camera. Besides, no picture could let you hear Mom and Grandma screaming at Dad, and that was the biggest thing going. I picked up a chain and some broken wood so I could put the swing back together. Grandma told me, “Knock it off. What we don’t need now is tetanus, or a splinter.” I put them back down and tried not to pout. I thought fixing that swing would matter.

*

One more picture of us. We have bandages on our heads from the swing. You can’t see my band-aids from the gravel because they’re on the back, but the cuts still sting. We lean against the Escort. Everybody’s eyes sag tired, but we look kind of happy. Dad said he was happy, because we were going home. Or maybe he said he was happy to leave. We’re all banged up, but this is my favorite. It’s the last one before Dad was gone. We were as happy as we could be.