Photo Spill In Aisle Nine

This is what I inherited
from you, when you sloughed
photographic memory, more
interested in what was never
recorded, never memorialized
and never accepted as —
this is what you refused to
become, robed in behaviors
that went deep into your
genesis.  This is where I found
myself playing the accordion,
dressed in a suit, not jeans, but
a suit and this is where I found
pictures of cub camp, Ipperwash,
friends framed by their front
doors, the three musketeers
in the back yard on Bristol Street,
random relatives removed by
the misdirection life applies;
this is where I felt like a
tiny man, caught in the strobes
of photographs, one moment six,
the next nine, then eighteen,
a bracelet of time.  This is where
dichotomy is pain, because
the touch-points between us
are so divergent;  Slovakia
and Canada — they're
open to interpretation.