In the photo on my phone, my son stands beside
a key deer, one hand limp at his side, the other
extending toward the spindly creature,
his delighted gaze on me where I stand behind
the camera. I don’t remember why he’s wearing
a shoelace tied around his head, but
his hair is bunched up and the look on his face says
he is both frightened by the deer and longing
to be closer to it. Oh, to love what we don’t understand. It
is ten years before he will take his life.
There are no clues in this photo of the tears.
The way his eyes will dull to black. The empty room.
The choice he made in that doorway.
No, in this photo, the aperture is still wide and
the Florida light reflects off his still-blonde
hair. What’s to come is more blurred than
the tropical trees behind him and the deer. Here, he is
still so curious about what might happen next, and
me, though I know now will happen in his story, it
doesn’t stop me from loving the boy
in that photo. Nor does it stop me from
loving him now. That love still framing
my life.