film reel
Mom gifts me a copy of the disc,
newly digitalized, and casually
I slip it into the laptop.
We laugh, each reel spliced together awkwardly,
a precious three hundred sixty seconds—
fragments of a kindly childhood
I had mostly forgotten
or tried to—
The handheld mic catches
every sideways breeze and
constant clack of the flapping filmstrip:
infant eddie almost rolls over and mom is smiling and
/scene change/ we play on the swings and /scene change/
my grandmother flicks a cigarette ash
on the porch of the old kitsilano house with those vintage vinyl chairs and
my uncles were all still slim in fitted polyester trousers and
/scene change/ i dig in the sand at the beach
the ducks are swimming and /scene change/
relatives i don’t know from the old country wave at the camera and
/scene change/ i toddle around the playground equipment
with no modern safety nets for those unexpected falls
and you ask me
What are you doing Lisa?
I hadn’t heard your voice in twenty-five years.
and three year old me grins at the camera and says
i’m looking at you