Boundaries
by Odin Roark

Shutter open... 10mm birth…fuzzy…distorted.

Years pass. Real time begins.

25mm memory – At eight, sickness gazes through the waning haze of anesthesia, then comes the sheet over my face, pronouncing me dead. The blurred shadow of my mother as she pounds my chest, pleading for life to return, ever faithful.

Breath returns… life continues its precarious journey.

35mm memory – Consciousness returns, calling the tilt of the frame, high above the green grass. From my bedroom window, my dog, Rusty, peering up at me, his coat all shiny, warm, sad eyed, loyal, so questioning.

Years become the past.

50mm – Yesterday’s then, beckoning the now, framing a young adult’s adventure, back when it was first realized; this is the perspective that doesn't lie.

The image of Father’s hand shaking mine,
tears dropping onto the knuckles of his grasp,
the ever present smell of motor oil on his person,
the sweet, sweet fragrance of his kiss farewell, trusting,
even as he fears my insistence to experience New York.

Decades pass, time waiting for no one.

The once prodigal son returns.

Like a nightmare, Mother lies fetal between the bed's rails.
With the touch of ethereal mystery, her fingers draw my cheek to hers.
the cowardice of guilt shrinks my falling tears into desperate mist upon her face.
She closes her eyes, a last forgiving breath, “I know. I know.”

Shrinking years progress.

Finally, so-called success. Just like the onionskin promised. The agents were right.
But, no... too much here and now. Too much trying to be perfect, when progression is the rule.
Something’s wrong. Addiction? To what?

Years mature.

500mm - Eyes strain through ever-remedial Visene. Holy shit. Look up there... ahead. Way up there. That’s Me?

Crank the focus. Yeah. That’s… No! That’s not me... is it?

Final years pass. Not even their 2000mm can pull me back.

Years of reflection nudge awaiting wisdom.

Be wary of your 50mm.
Normal may not be truth.
Respect the 500mm, but honor the micro,
where the you nobody else knows…perhaps the you nobody cares about… the you of you…
where truth has nowhere to go… except beyond the boundaries.

Shutter closed.