Faithless Eye by David Blumenfeld

Maksim Smirnov

Faithless Eye

1948. I was eleven, convinced I had witnessed my first miracle, a camera that develops film instantly, a slice of time preserved, held tight. There they were: Mother, Father, little brother, soon to die, age seven, polio, I must have snapped the shot, snatched off the negative, and voila! A vague sepia image begins to grow like a burgeoning wave until the slick Polaroid film crests, crescendos, capturing the moment better  (it seems) than memory, that fading, fleeting, forgetful keeper of family records, errant historian, inconstant forge of things-gone-by, time’s careless custodian,  yet the photo, like memory, soon fogs, fades, flickers, and decades later, what remains? A barely visible scene: faces a blur, Mother a mist, Father a shadow, little brother…gone.                                                            

1995. “I’m losing it,” says my daughter. “Can’t recapture Mother’s image, can’t see her face, she’s dead for a few months, and it's vanishing, her visage  from my mind’s eye, memory’s faithless eye, must I lose her image too?” But I, father, widower, her image still sharp in my inner camera (for now). What I fear losing is the pain, duller now, dull thud-of-a-club, not the knife-like, once-whirring saw-in-the chest-and-head. Don’t let me lose the pain, the pain is the memory, the photo, avatar, incandescent incarnation of how much was lost. That is worth preserving. Let me hold the pain, holy pain. Let it stay.

© David Blumenfeld

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David Blumenfeld

David Blumenfeld resumed writing poetry after a hiatus of more than forty years. One of his pieces received a “notable essay” commendation in The Best American Essays 2023, and another appeared in The Best American Haiku 2023. Since 2022, he has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize three times. Davidcblumenfeld.com.

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