but mostly because there was something magical about it being his phone, which still worked eight years after his body stopped working.
The screen lit up and then loaded the home screen, a picture of my mom and me at Juan Solomon Park,
seven-year-old me on a playground swing, leaning so far back that my upside-down face was turned to the camera.
Mom always said I remembered the pictures, not what was actually happening when they were taken,
but still, I felt like I could remember—him pushing me on the swing, his hand as big as my back,
the certainty that swinging away from him also meant swinging back to him.
I tapped over to his photos. He’d taken most of the pictures himself, so you rarely see him—
instead, you see what he saw, what looked interesting to him, which was mostly me, Mom, and the sky broken up by tree branches.
I swiped right, watching us all get younger. Mom riding a tiny tricycle with tiny me on her shoulders,
me eating breakfast with cinnamon sugar plastered all over my face.
The only pictures he appeared in were selfies, but phones back then didn’t have front-facing cameras, so he had to guess at the framing.
The pictures were inevitably crooked, part of us out of the frame, but you could always see me at least, curling into Mom—I was a mama’s girl.
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