A Past

Recognizing the past is always a struggle for me. Perhaps because in the present, the past seems to come from a better, more productive place where there is no alone. As if then, I knew less, but cared more. I was watching myself as a child in a home movie my dad insisted upon. In those days, the 70s, my "artistically inclined" uncle studied film. And so there is endless footage of expression and movement from our family and his friends. Not really a home movie. This particular film, myself as a child, was really about my parents on a motorcycle. They were in a gang. Hippies with a sense of responsibility and desire to succeed in the land of opportunity. Success, of course, meaning a home and an education. But my parents were young and still learning. They rode motorcycles and listened to Zeppelin. My uncle intended to capture their lifestyle. The film itself was silent. Sound erroded with time. In this scene, the one I saw, mom and dad kissed me goodbye. I watched from the alleyway as they got on the bike, strapped on helmets, and rode off into the sunset. For that moment, my uncle kept the camera on me. I stood there with an aunt, a year older, and a childhood friend. We waived, but I wasn't smiling. I stopped. They, the two delighted little girls, continued to waive and as the camera focused in, I blocked their arms - I looked down -
For that second, past becoming present.