Nasia Anam

In Hanover Park, Illinois, during the summer of 1984. My sister smiling, climbing on my father’s back, looking straight ahead with the near triumph of the endeavor. My father crouching, bearing the weight of his child who is in the last stages of girlhood, proud of his strength and the family he has carried. My mother out of the frame, watching us, maybe behind the camera, maybe inside applying a final swipe of lipstick. And me, small, thrilled, and marveling. Wondering if I could ever dare to climb like that. Wondering if I could ever be so sure no one would let me fall. This is how we were then; this is how we are now; this is how we will always be.