The Photograph

The Photograph

It was an old photo. The date on the back read 1967, and the picture itself was black and white. There was only one person in the photo, a young boy around my age, with a book in his hands.
He had darkish blond hair, just like I do, with thick eyebrows just like mine. The eyes under the eyebrows were brown and serious, but at the same time, his gaze was keen and clever. They had some sort of glint, as though he was planning something, something very intelligent and very secret. He had dark shadows under his eyes, big, pronounced shadows that seemed somehow familiar. A vague smile lit his face, a triumphant smile which said a lot about this boy. He knew what he wanted, and he knew how to get it. And when he got it, he wouldn't brag, just smile that vague smile and enjoy his victory. And that's how it always happened.
In his hands was an enormous book, open to somewhere in the middle. It was obvious that he was a well-brought up and well-educated boy. He had an air of dominance about him, in his stance, in his expression. It wasn't an aggressive dominance, however, but quiet, simple, natural. And somehow, it was more impressive.
I liked this picture. Something intrigued me about this unknown mysterious boy. Something drew me to him, some sort of bond, as if we had known each other in the distant past.
I asked my mother about it later, when we were alone. "Who is that boy?" I said, and she replied simply,
"That's your father."

~ConstanceDH