By Douglas Fritock
Because my father always insisted
on taking my photo
with the sun at his back,
so its rays would shine squarely
on my face, imparting
warmth and color
to my otherwise pale complexion
while I tried hard not to squint,
his shadow frequently appears
in the foreground,
casting itself on the asphalt
or burying its nose in the grass,
legs slightly bowed, shoulders
sloped, elbows flared
as he lifts the viewfinder
to his eye. It’s a silhouette
I know well, a likeness
I’d recognize anywhere,
but leafing through the album
on this breezy October afternoon
almost six months after he passed,
the world outside as vivid
as a Kodachrome snapshot,
I wonder how I never noticed
every picture of me
is also a picture of him.
After spending many years on the East Coast, Douglas Fritock now lives with his family in Redondo Beach, California but still pines away for snow. Previously a tobacco chemist, he has since given up the dark arts and now spends his days driving carpool, tending native plants, swinging kettlebells, and working on poems. His work has previously appeared in Little Patuxent Review and is forthcoming in Ponder Review and Puerto del Sol. Visit Doug Fritock’s Instagram here.
