I have been doing an awful lot of skype lately, away from home. Last night I was chatting with a dear friend. She was under the weather and feeling alone and struggling with a single-parenting issue that I heartily could relate to. And then she said something about when she was a child – and what would normally be a fleeting expression – froze. her image pixilated into a portrait of deep sadness that she normally would not allow herself to show. Skype held that fragment – that delicate split second of humanity – like a “missing child” ad for me to gaze at for the three minutes before we could reconnect. When she appeared again she had her game face on and we chatted and brightened and closed with a better day tomorrow. But ever since, I have been haunted by that dear pixilated expression. The one she likely had on her face at the age of eight, hanging over the back of the sofa, staring out the window, waiting for Dad to come home. I see you. I see you. I see your sweet sad self.
self portrait by Lorrie Cranor
