It’s almost midnight when I pull the print out of the stop bath and put it in the water to wash. After a few minutes, I turn on the main light and pull the print out of water. I stick it to the tiles above the bathtub and see water leave the fibers of the paper. There are little rivers coming out of Ida’s eyes. I watch the print, straight on and from both sides. Ida, in the photo, is looking right at me. I remember the moment I pressed the shutter. I see her eyes, lips and cheeks. I see her go down on her heels and put her face on her hands and then on her knees, as if she’s sleeping with her eyes open. She folded herself into one ball of delight and perfection. She gazed slightly upward, straight into the lens, into my eyes. I take the print rubber squeegee and wipe off the tears from Ida’s face. I let mine run.
Crack the Spine - Issue 137
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