epilogue [pt 8]

There in Trafalgar Square; the kids in their crested jackets on one of the great lions, tourists posing in front of the other three, a world floated around me that did not bind me due to the magic spell of travel which leaves one free of the constraints of self, realizing I would never see that face again, never hold her again, I still tremble at the loss of her, hearing the song that she used to fall asleep to on my chest with the beating of my heart in her ear brings me to great horrific sobs, still, I felt it then as I feel it now; the tourists walked past me in oblivion, the sun beat faintly at my eyes, the grey hat that had been mine for years but never belonged to me until I placed it on my head in London, that there I might try to pass the hat off as part of me, but with my friends I could not reveal a new item without some serious critique; I photographed myself.

It wasn't until after I returned, after I'd spent a week in bed with a horrific flu that literally got a hold of me in the airport and was completely throwing my nervous system out of whack by the time the airplane landed at O'hare, fevers, chills, aches, headache (I never travel well on planes, having a terrible time with my ears losing pressure), the flu that triggered six days of migraines of the painful, high level on the broad scale that are my migraines, the kind that happen to me once in a great while, those six miserable days I spent lying on the couch/during which I was absolutely aware of the fucking coincidence that emotionally I was in agony; I would have to get a new job, maybe go back to the cafe again, but the chanting was endless: I was never going to see Iris again.

It wasn't until after that woman suggested we meet to discuss what happened in London, after I arrived late at the meeting, in which we exchanged pleasantries, she actually went through the rigor of pleasantries, and then I said I wanted an apology from her, for the swearing, for the outburst, to which she said no. We agreed to disagree and then she lied, meek in public, not able to fully release herself, a self I had seen biting at the surface for years before it actually emerged, so I was prepared for anything that day, but I did not expect her to leave it open, saying, maybe we just need a break. (The break continues, some two and a half years later. I have not contacted them and they have not contacted me since.)

It wasn't until after all that, I finally saw it. The burnham prepared them for me, printed off my camera, all of the treasures stored on film, processed and the product given to me, to be a film photographer is to give birth one frame at time, no twins or triplets for me, because each photo was my one opportunity to capture that vision that had arrested me, a pile of buildings mostly, ornamental additions, the lopped off trees, frozen in time, aching at the sky, the surprise of the stencil graffiti, every picture of Wales idyllic, all of it tumbling back at me, a regret, a sadness, until; there I was,

I hadn't been angry in a photograph since I was a little girl, always carefully smiling, obscuring the space in my teeth, holding myself as perfectly as I could, trying to distract everyone away from what my faults were and draw attention to my features. That day, the last day in London, I didn't care what anyone thought of me, I held the camera up to myself, no rush, in a crowded square of strangers I felt the lack of that chronic and characteristic concern that someone was watching me and waiting to point out to everyone what a fool I was (a feeling that lessens every day continuing from that day), and I took the picture. I saw that in my imperfections, in my scowl, in my defiance, even with the grief of losing her gripping me, I saw that I already was perfect, that I didn't need to fix anything about me, that I may be ugly to some, but I am beautiful when I am being myself and not hiding anything.