Me, Mommy, and Dad (Not in Photo)

A random photograph and what it reminds me of childhood.

There’s this photo framed on my shelf, just under the television set and right next to my art supplies. I don’t recall when it was taken, but it’s a picture of me and my mom in our apartment. My mom gave me this photo shortly after we fought about something. As with all our arguments, I’m sure it was a petty argument, that it was mostly our tempers getting the best of us, and that soon enough, the hostility just fizzled out.

In the photo, I’m balancing on Mommy’s lap, posing for the camera in straight-cut bangs, a white shirt, and floral shorts. My right hand is raised awkwardly; it looks somewhere between a wave and a high-five. My elbow, supposedly propelling the would-be high-five, is cut from the frame. My bare feet are balancing precariously on Mommy’s thigh.

Then there’s my mom, also in bangs. She’s also in a white shirt, but this one is styled with a V-neck jumpsuit, with her office ID clipped to her collar. Her right hand and elbow are also hidden, probably because she was trying to keep me from falling off her lap.

Behind us is a box-type television, playing what looks like a random action movie. The rest of the frame is filled with shelves housing a random collection of items—some of my toys (including a plastic doctor’s kit), body lotion, and a vanity mirror, among other indiscernible items. Back then, my parents and I lived in a small apartment and slept in a single room, so we made do with whatever space we had.

Again, I do not remember when this photo was taken, where we came from/where we were going, or why I suddenly mounted myself on Mommy’s right thigh to pose for the camera. If I were to guess, we probably just got home from work and school, having a little fun when Dad decided to capture this random moment—something he always does when he has his camera ready.

Interestingly, though I remember nothing of this moment, it makes sense to me that it happened. It seems only natural that Mommy and I would be goofing off in our apartment, that I would be posing and smiling at the slightest hint of a camera, or that Mommy would be having fun with me while also keeping me from falling, posing with me while protecting me from my recklessness; or that Dad would take this photo, choosing to be unseen but still always a part of the scene. This is a perfect snapshot of our family together at home, toys and television shows included.

I don’t remember being in the photo, but oddly, I can imagine what it feels like to be in the photo. Memory, after all, is sometimes more atmospheric than it is photographic. Such is childhood, I gather — a series of forgotten moments that somehow make a memory.