Photographs of ancestors cover my walls,
their solemn faces hoping for one moment of eternity.
My ancestors don’t contemplate the night sky, or the work of their hands.
Instead I see their eyes widen as you call for them to hold very still,
to please hold very still while you light a fire in the flash pan,
while you illuminate a small tunnel for me to peer through.
There you are. Reflected in their eyes.
And in that endless hallway of reflection
between their eyes and yours,
I catch a brief glimpse of myself,
staring at an impossible thing.
The butterfly of existence.
The dark matter of existence.
The strong cord of existence.
The smoke and mirrors of existence.
The courage of existence.