By Merrill Chiang
When the cab drove up, she was crouched by the stone wall along her grandpa’s patch of pea shoots. Reentering the house through the slanted screened porch, she twisted her eyes away from the ladybug bumbling along the arm of the wicker chair. In the past, Grandpa’s fingertips would’ve met hers, forming a bridge for the ladybug to tickle across. Passing through the kitchen, she dodged the jar of the candies he used to sneak into her palm while commenting to her mother, She’s got a good grip! Those smothering summer nights, she would sit on his lap and count the moths swarming the porch light, praying for the respite of the breeze to turn the window blinds into wind chimes.
Grabbing her bags from the guest room, she made sure that his picture album was still wrapped in her blouse. Back when she still fit on Grandpa’s lap, she asked him, Why do you take photos of everything? He smiled and said, These photos are my life. Whenever she pleaded to see, he spun her round and round. You’ve already seen everything I have!
On the plane back, she unsealed the pristine pages in her lap. It was true; she recognized most of the photos: her parents’ wedding, a drying, unfurled umbrella under the garage awning; and seedlings peeking out of the soil. Then she turned the page, and it was her swaddled as a baby. She took her first steps, and soon, she skipped atop the stone wall. On the next page, a ladybug landed on the chocolate swamp covering her face. Later, she fell asleep in the seat by the window, with a pea flower tucked behind her ear. Then in fifth grade, her parents whisked her a state away, and each photo began to skip a year or two; she had braces, bangs, and then a diploma. Throughout the years she didn’t see him, he only took photos of one thing: snow peas.
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