It was the last image of my father, taken at a reptile zoo in the middle of Florida. I continue to search the photograph for whatever I may have missed. As if I’d overlooked a charcoal-coated osprey lurking behind a branch or the jagged shell of a reptile egg rubbing against my father’s shoe. If I look close--squint through the fingerprint-smudges and past the tired edges--I might find what’s not visible to the naked eye. The scaly auburn bark freeing itself from a longleaf pine; or the delicate, lavender blossoms of the beautyberry. And by that shrub, spot the speckled wings of a swallowtail, a native butterfly slurping up its sweet nectar. Further back, notice the interwoven foliage: the firebush and spiderwort and silver buttonwood, tangled, strangling out the light.
I’d once committed to memory what the picture captured: the way my father pitched patches of leaves to the alligators, dark and menacing, like a harbinger of his death. Had memorized the way a bevy of dazzling and vibrant peacocks appear to be closing in on him. Perched precariously, he was, between light and darkness, life and death. Weeks later, he’d be gone. I continue to scan the photograph, expecting new details to emerge. Hunt, too, for what the photo could never reveal: my father’s inner dialogue, what he was most proud of, his biggest fears. Had it been to die? Had it been to leave his family so soon?
Susan Triemert holds an MA in Education and an MFA from Hamline University in St. Paul, MN. She has been published or forthcoming in Colorado Review, Cheat River Review, Crab Orchard Review, A-Minor, Evening Street Review, Pithead Chapel, 101word stories and elsewhere. She lives in St. Paul with her husband, their two sons, and never enough animals. Twitter: @SusanTriemert
