Charades

Photographs lie.

Extraneous reality is framed out.

Perspective and lighting are carefully selected.

One moment out of an infinite series of moments is chosen.

And yet they can convey something important.

Eyes aren’t much better.

We notice only a fraction of what we see.

We commit to memory only a fraction of what we notice.

Frankly, we interpret what we see without thinking through a lens of preconception.

And yet sometimes we do see.

Truth and accuracy are overrated.

It’s less important to determine how things really are than to recognize what they mean –

to me, to you.

I already think my photos are good

enough for the company.

I want to know which ones you like, and why.

They mattered enough to me to show.

The question is do any of them mean something to you?

As far as I’m concerned this is all one big game of charades.

I have gestured my clues.

I have pantomimed one idea after another.

I have jumped up and down, flapping my arms.

I have slapped my forehead in disbelief.

One day, you and I will be walking across the bridge

and I will point my finger out over the water winking sky and sun

and then, finally, you will see what I see

and touch the tip of your finger to the tip of my nose.

And we will hold hands and jump over the railing –

and ascend into the ever blackening sky,

up through the empty, empty spaces between the stars

until finally we hit one

and are drawn deep into its fiery core –

and then we will continue as we usually do

to the other side of the river

like nothing has happened.