The twilight side of the hill

Mirabelle lies back on her bed holding the photos like a gin hand. Each one is a ticket to the past; each reveals a moment, not only in the faces but in the furniture and other objects in the background. She remembers that rocker, she remembers that magazine, she remembers that porcelain souvenir from Monticello. She stares into these photos, enters them. She knows that even though the same people and the same furniture are outside her door, the photo cannot be re-created, reposed and snapped again, not without reaching through time. Everything is present but untouchable. This melancholy stays with her until sleep, and she loves being held by it, but she cannot figure out why these photos are so powerful beyond their obvious nostalgic tug.

-Steve Martin, Shopgirl, pp.93

My dad comes into my room to ask me how i'm feeling and to tell me that he's there if i need him. He tells me that the doctor has asked him about my well-being, to which he (my dad) replied: "Apart from the occassional bouts of moodiness, she seems fine." I calmly tell my dad that i'm going to ask the doctor to increase the dosage of my anti-anxiety pills. I also tell him that i'm tired of talking about it because unelss you've been through what i'm going through, you just cannot understand. And that's just the way it is.

My dad then looks at my photo wall and glances at all the photos i've put up. I'm smiling in all of them because that's what you do, don't you? You smile for the camera. My dad looks sad for a moment as he wonders what happened to the girl in the photos. He doesn't need to say anything. I can tell by his expression. He mourns for the daughter i once was.

I sit in my chair and mourn for the girl i used to be. One...two...thee minutes.

Then i give a little shrug and say: "Dad, i'm not unhappy now."

And you know what? I'm not.