over the hilltop, down in the valley.

i remember going downstairs, to the studio. my mother sat in a chair next to the wall of bookcases. she was looking at photographs of us when we were younger, and crying. i think this was sometime right before the divorce, and perhaps there was not only reminiscing but decision-making happening, as my father ended up with a number of pictures of us. i find it both circular and ironic that i sit now doing the same thing, with the same pictures. because the amount of childhood photos in which i am with my father is incredibly disproportionate to those i have with my mother. the same goes for today. he cannot walk a block without taking a picture of me next to a tree. literally. we once stopped at the top of val imm hill (at a stop sign, nonetheless. aren't you glad you weren't behind us that day?) to take a picture of me in front of some tree. he has this thing about pictures. as if he believes that if he documents the time spent with his children, it proves that his involvement in our lives outweighs the terrible deceit to which he's subjected us. he gave me a book of pictures of the two of us, some also with my brothers, for my high school graduation. it has a purple cover and an inscription: "good times." my mother once wondered aloud why he would give away those pictures, even to me. i realize now that maybe she wished they were not ones that she gave away to him years ago.

we've been spring cleaning, albeit preemtively. it turns out even chicago makes me antsy for spring. so i've come across these photos. so many photos, of my father and i.

he gave me a camera for christmas two years ago. i've only ever used it in italy, perhaps just to show him where i'd been and what i'd seen. my mother told me once it was the only place he'd ever felt comfortable. after being there, i can understand that, although he is still (and always will be) a mystery to me.

i've never been much for pictures.