Lewinsky

I was born three months before the moon landing.

There is a photograph
in a beat-up scrapbook
with psychedelic colors
buried in the back bedroom.

It is a photograph of a
three month old me
being propped up
in front of the television
as men walk on the moon.

Apparently the landing
was late at night,
midnight or somewhere thereabouts
and according to my mom,
according to a drunken story
delivered to me
at a wedding reception,
according to my mom
she begged my dad
to let me sleep
because I'd be cranky
the whole next day
and besides,
he's three months old.
He won't remember a thing.

My dad was adamant,
according to the drunken story
delivered to me
at a wedding reception.
He was to make sure
that his son
would always be able to say
that he witnessed the moon landing
live
the evening it happened.

You can see my dad's hands
in the photograph,
hooked under my armpits,
holding me up next to the television.
The arms
trail off
into the netherworld
that exists beyond the frames
of photographs,
the unknown and undocumented past
that exists
right outside the eyepiece
of the Kodak Brownie.

According to the drunken story
delivered to me
at a wedding reception,
I certainly was cranky the whole next day
but my dad never regretted
waking me up
and as the years ensued
even my mom was glad
I was a witness
to the staticky video images
that night.
I'm certainly glad
they found it important.

Copyright 1998, Jason Pettus. All rights reserved.