I only know it’s me because it says so,
scribbled in blue biro in the corner;
a photo of a cardboard box with legs:
my legs, toddler legs, and shorts full of nappy.
Above the words ‘Solidev Ltd’, my eyes
and fingers peek through a crudely cut hole.

You tower over the top of the box, white shirt,
back buckled, a Seventies moustache upon your lip,
holding the box in place. My eyes are laughing.
Yours? They’re full of concentration as you
guide me across our manicured lawn towards
the camera, making sure I do not trip.

Later, those same hands propelled me as
I learned to ride, a love that now unites us.
The bike was secondhand but you repainted it,
made it new for me, and set me on my way.
Turning, your hands have gone, I’ve been released:
holding and letting go is a father’s task.

Next they’re teacher’s hands, hoiking children from
a writhing mass of bodies, only to find
me at the bottom. Your turn perhaps to want to
hide in a box? Alas there’s none, unlike
that time you proved you could do a headstand
inside one’s fragile walls – don’t try that now!

Next time hands and boxes mix, I’m married.
We’re on the move and you’ve kindly hired a van
and driven down to help us. I know how much
that stressed you out and yet you came regardless.
We work all day, the two of us, shifting
in silent concentration until it’s done.

Soon, another photo. No boxes now
but four generations: Grandad, Dad,
myself, my son. Like a flickerbook we move
through time as eyes are traced across the image
from left to right, and now we smile just like
our fathers’ captured faces did back then.

Dad’s birthday’s coming up and it’s got me reflecting on our past and some of its memorable snapshots.
(19.09.24)

© Ben Quant 2024