In Brisbane, we splurge and get six rolls of film developed. It’s so expensive, as much as a week in a hostel, but we’re flush and we can’t wait any longer to look back.
There’s a shot from JFK of my parents and Tracy’s mom amid all the Taiwanese going home. There’s our first tuk-tuk driver, and Christmas morning in Ko Samui, and Tracy buying bright gold mango chunks from a street vendor. Deeper in the envelopes are pictures from Kings Cross, Glebe Markets, Martin and his pal whose name I’m already unsure of—Jason? Justin?—Milly and John at Avoca, Pop in the yard holding lemons, Martin leaning into Captain Caveman, Evan in the art museum, floating in a corner of white floors, white walls, and white ceiling like a piece of abstract art waiting to be interpreted.
Finally, we get to the shot John took at the Sydney airport and my head’s almost totally cut off. He focused on the kids in my arms. Perfect, really. That’s exactly what I was: a pair of hands in a tough stretch.
I seal all the photos and negatives in a plastic bag and slide it deep in the pocket of my backpack, where I keep things I want to protect—immigration forms, traveler’s checks, journals as they fill up, my plane ticket, the picture of my Classic American family, the best sculpture Milly Tanner ever made, and the photograph of Ellen Tanner that the kids let me take. It’s nothing special. She’s sitting by the pool with a magazine on her lap, lifeguarding Martin and Milly. They don’t seem to know she’s there, but that’s impossible. Kids can always feel their mothers, right?
Children, Kelly. Goats have kids. Are they goats?
