"Wave Hello!" to your mother: diaper bag and camera ready at the side gate exit sign. To her, we are traveling a reliable circular trajectory with some upward and downward movement In sync with the old timey music, like a jewelry box that holds her children.
Inside the ride, we gallop. The breeze tousles your hair, you laugh when you get coffee on your shirt.
"One more shot!" Yells your mother. She's wearing a pink visor that she wasn't before.
She unzips her Fanny pack for more film.
We come around and around parallax!
on the ferries wheel each time, your mother soldier ready with her trigger finger, camera and visor, and the top of her curly head -
Hoping this is the right horsy
This is the photo that turns out
with all of us smiling, before the baby
gets chocolate ice cream on his red
striped shirt -
But isn't THAT the photo we want?
The blurry one; the accidental indisposed where the real party is happening - mass is coalescing and dissolving at once and so beautifully scattering / like a tiny swarm of sparkling gnats and glitter AND the washer drier PLUS! the swamp cooler for free - all whirl and combust, all bright and still. Isn't this the photo of the Universe?
You, me, the baby - the particles physics that rule our together-ness.
Your mother, her camera the particle detector, her eyes, detectors too, witness to the most handsome quarks in existence. (Relatively)
This ferries wheel the large hadron collider - around and around and around we go smashing into Hydrogen particles (mostly), making faces, Bosons of ourselves for the baby (your joke); imperceptible string ensembles - all our first dances.
It's all there, in the photo: everything in spacetime. baby's ice cream forever suspended between shirt and sky, a brush stroke that paints the breeze in your hair, across your eyes -
Every blurry photo, the explanation of everything. Every beautiful photo proof of God