I’m a successful photographer now, not a struggling model/actress as I was back then, doing whatever I could to get by in Paris’ dirty world of sparkling fashion.
As I walk towards the meeting place, looking only for the one man I want to see, I nearly miss the ethereal face made by the shadows and light reflected from the rain-soaked paving.
I have to do it. The artist in me won’t be stopped even at this, the most important moment of my life. I whip out my camera and take a few shots, stepping to one side to be sure the basis of the face is there. It can be photo-shopped to be more recognizable afterwards. I only see him in the view-finder and nearly drop my precious hybrid equipment in a puddle. How apt! How bloody ironical!
I look again at the imaginary face and it looks like me. My old self, way back when I did the Egyptian shoot. They could only do my head as by then my belly was swollen drum-tight. Bursting with life – with him. But he got the note I gave to the sisters when they took him away for adoption. Right time, right place.
I’d finally see my son.