Images In the Dark

My father died when I was seven. Like a girl in a museum I'm drawn to his pictures - those inadequate reproductions hypnotize me What can pictures give? Coal-blue eyes, a knowing look. They exist, for me, like Cassandra of Troy, full of endless secrets that can never be told. A snowy, ice slickened, twilight-blue rush hour parade - hundreds of grimy cars rushing, rushing ... somewhere. Why do the details I can't remember haunt me so? A flash of light, the tearing of metal like the screaming of dogs in a reeling, devouring dance of energy. The nuclear family detonating with death inches away. Everyone was asking, "What do you remember?" "I don't know," 7 year old me said. Sometimes, as I fall asleep, memories of him - which I hold dear - come to me like the ghosts of departed friends. Image after image in the embracing dark. Why is it the further away you get, the more I need you? Those images and that voice are strangely silent in the morning as I'm, once again, awakened to a world I'd rather reassemble.