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Both of them were thrown into the weeds on the side of the road. The next teenlesbians day the sheriff handed my brother a brown paper bag with a stiff bloody bikini in it. Instant death, he said, teenlesbians but I knew better. My mother had been aiming for that moment for a long time. She couldn't have chosen a better ending to her story. Her trajectory began inside the white scalloped edges teenlesbians of a photograph. She flirts with the camera, poses like a beauty queen standing in a small wooden boat on the shore of Lake Seminole, barefoot, hands on hips, head thrown back, a wide and bright smile. Open. She's wearing short shorts and she's conscious: "This is how I want to be remembered; I am as marvelous as Miss America." She gives herself to the camera, maybe to the eyes behind the camera. I imagine my father before he was my father, smiling at my mother before she was my mother. He has a head full of glossy black hair. Squinting his eyes, bringing her into focus, he snaps this photo of her, thinks of butterflies resting on leaves, camouflaged, right before they are netted, pinned into boxes.
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