House on Alexandria

When I was a child I learned I could not travel in time. So let me say that right away. Not that anyone I knew could, but I did learn that I could slip through time, I would throw my thought back, small thought, rippling thought, and they could make changes that I would notice. That was how it first began, and it was all a game, and I would probably forgotten about it as I got older, except that I found it worked best if I had a photograph to work with. with a photograph I could see the people who’s minds I was touching in the past. And that was how I worked on it, from the photos.

It was a game, of course. I was just making people move a little, shift position. It was a game that only a child would play, like farting and running away with laughter.

We used to visit an old lady we knew. I don’t know how we knew her. A lot of my parent’s friends were like that. Old, and mysterious. Or at least it seemed to me for most of my childhood. We would be introduced to someone, some great aunt, only to never see them again. Weird.

My mother said that she was a family friend and so we would rive down streets filled with tall apartment buildings, until we came to her little house, one of the few remaining single houses on the street. It was covered with plants, so you couldn’t see how large it was, from the outside, but it was small inside and smelled of old things. Mom and she would talk about things, and drink tea and I would try to find *something* to do. I think, when I was very young, my mother would bring coloring books, or something, but later, she either forgot, or I outgrew it, so I was on my own. That’s when I started looking at the photos. She had them covering the walls, and the shelves.

But it is harder to move people in photos where you don’t know them. I couldn’t get them to move, so I got bored quickly.

One day, I don’t remember why, I was left there by myself. My mother would be back later, so I spent the whole day with Mrs. Eppie. We make cracked marbles and fried pears and she told stories of the people in the photos. She had one in the corner that was of one man. He reminded meo f the photos I had seen of my dad when he was young, and I said so.

Mrs. Eppie paused in her story and stood beside me. She was only an inch taller than I then. I think I am taller than her now, if she were still around.

“That’s Luigi,” she said. She squeezed me. “Manny knew him, like he knew your father, but it was really his friend, more than your fathers. She pulled out another photo, also from the shelf, that I hadn’t noticed before. It was of tow men, black and white, hair pasted back, the way my dad still wore his hair, wearing those old-fashioned clothes. They were talking together. It was taken in Echo Park. I recognized that at least. The place never changes.

” That’s your dad and Luigi. This was taken a week before…” She muttered something, and said she had to check the tea kettle. I stared at the two young men. Did I know my dad well enough to make him move. I did know Echo Park. I  had spent many weekends there. As Mrs. Eppie poured the tea I journied back to see what I could do. And that time, it was not just my mind, but me. I was there. Well, there as a thought.  It was the best I had done.

Of course, it was not sepia tone in the past. It was a bright clear cloudless day in May. The two young men were laughing and kidding, and I supposed that was Manny taking the photo, or trying to take it. The two guys were kidding around, and I couldn’t get into their thoughts. I couldn’t get them to do a thing. I was so amazed though, at seeing my dad smiling and happy and so young. It was so cool. I rarely saw my dad laugh. He was always so gruff with me.

He was telling a story to Luigi, who was laughing as well. I turned to look at Manny, to get a good look when Mrs. Eppie asked if I would like sugar and I was back.

And of course, the picture had not moved.

We sat down to tea and I could hardly wait to find out about an uncle I never knew and a best friend. Hard to think my dad, who seemed to have only realatives and not friends, would have known anyone who made him laugh.

“What happened to Manny? What happened to Luigi?” I asked.

“Luigi?” she asked, as though surprised that I would ask about him. “Did they never tell you about Luigi?” She shock her head. “Such a bright young man. So sweet. So helpful. Shame, it was. It was for the Olympics, you know.”

Dad had never mentioned having another brother, so I had *no* idea what was coming.

But my mother came and got me before I could hear any of the story. While she was saying her good-byes, I took the photo and slipped it into my clothes. I had many questions.

But we never went back again. I don’t know why. Perhaps she died. And perhaps I was told, but I don’t remember.

But at least I had the photo.