Kim Noriega

It’s my favorite photo— captioned, “Daddy and His Sweetheart.” It’s in black and white, it’s before Pabst Blue Ribbon, before his tongue became a knife that made my mother bleed, and before he blackened my eye the time he thought I meant to end my life. He’s standing in our yard on Porter Road beneath the old chestnut tree. He’s wearing sunglasses, a light cotton shirt, and a dreamy expression. He’s twenty-seven. I’m two. My hair, still baby curls, is being tossed by a gentle breeze. I’m fast asleep in his arms.