chicagodads

I have in my possession (somewhere) a photograph taken from their last meet-up together. It is from a series of staged shots, where the two models were framed on a love seat. Jocelyn (the daughter) was by this time five months old and obviously the big cousin, a designation set and locked for the rest of their predetermined lives. Or at least, that’s what the picture would have you believe that Jocelyn would have you believe.

She popped her in the mouth. That’s what it looks like. Right in the kisser with a tensely slow-moving left upper-cut. Chloe, partly because she could not believe that her own flesh and blood was doing this to her, nor could she comprehend why anyone would want to bother her sweet self, but also because – as it stood at the moment – neither one of them could even sit up yet, watched the even unfold in live tragic comicplay.

Of course,some would argue, the transgression could easily be viewed as a demonstration of the elder cousin’s perfume. But that is a foolish argument; the reasoners may as well have said that unicorns are extinct because they were made out of candy or Loch Ness has never been sighted because he swam off the edge of the earth. Why would it be, alas, the back of her hand facing the face of the younger one? No, the only logical explanation to the eye is that the girl with the light, Charlie Brown-esque hair is insanely jealous of the much shorter girl with the full set of hair. Heck, I would have beat her up. There are plenty of men moving on to middle age who could use some of what she’s got.

Jocelyn was probably equally infuriated by the fact that she had to dress up in a red Santa suit while the little one mocked her with cool detachment.

It is the still-photo equivalent of a football-in-the-crotch shot. Jab to the nose. A moment locked up and stored forever – or for however long it takes until we need a new manner of storing photography.

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