by Frank Jackson

Inside a photo, there is no such thing as air.

Claire is smiling somewhat and looking off in the distance toward the sunset. Jason has his arm wrapped around her. She has her hand wrapped inside his.

I am in the process of jumping behind them, legs spread fully parallel.

In this moment I am thinking:

What a strange situation to be in. Us together with Jason. With Claire. With their unborn baby who unbeknownst to Jason, does not belong to Jason and with Ryan the actual father of the baby taking the photo, which is cutting off half of Jason, and the center of the picture is instead focusing on Claire directly, with her awkward smile, and the baby inside her, likely the closest Jason will ever get to a sonogram, and me legs a part 180 degrees thinking what a strange thing for my body to be doing considering I had never executed a leaping split before, seconds away from an agonizing pulled muscle that would force Jason, Claire, myself, Ryan, the unborn baby, into a car, as I’m rushed to the emergency room, where they all will sit in a waiting room together, while I undergo several excruciating attempts to stabilize the tremor in my groin muscles, where I will be screaming out, strapped down, wrapped up, hours later coming back into the waiting room, slightly drugged, uninsured, thirsty, but still, cognizant enough to see on Jason’s face and Ryan’s face and Claire’s face that indeed there was something strange happening, and with everything in motion, it would only be a matter of time when the baby would move mountains, which would once again alter the meaning of a photo I would someday choose not to be tagged in.