by Mark Mahon

Created on: September 03, 2009

We recently visited a botanical garden. Of course, it was apt to take some family snaps. My wife and my fourteen-year-old son paraded in front of a flowerbed. There was a full array of colours that danced behind them. I knew that there were tulips but the labels attached to the other vibrant petals may as well have been written in another language. My son towered over his mum, not so long ago he was required to look up into her radiant eyes, now he has to tilt his head downwards and adjust the position of his large brown eyes to view her. It reminds me of a giraffe taking an interest in me at the zoo. During my turn to be photographed with him, I made sure that I sucked in a deep breath and pushed my chest out. I strained through every joint in my body in an effort to force my stature upwards. We had been competing for the past six months over who was the tallest. We spent too much time standing back to back, stretching upwards and straining to look at the mirror.

Sometimes the instant gratification provided by technology is not advantageous to all. If we had to wait for the photos to be developed, my son may not have had that opportunity to boast. In the instant digital representation, it is obvious that I endeavoured to stand tall whilst my son, in true adolescent tradition, slouched with hands in pockets and peered at the camera lens with his best poker face to disguise any hint that he felt emotion. Gravity dragged at my body. My man boobs pointed to the ground. My shoulders slouched bearing the weight of many years. Alternatively, my son looked like he was about to burst upwards out of his body. He vibrated with the tension of his bones growing faster than his meat. His shoulders were higher than mine were, his hips were higher than mine were, and there was no mistaking that he was taller than I was.

Looking at this picture, a flood of memories and thoughts flowed throughout my whole mind. They moved through like a tsunami. There was no engulfing thunderous wave, just a body of feelings pressing through, taking everything within its path. I remembered every moment of my son's growth. He was constantly measuring himself against me. These memories flooded into pictures of the things that he did during those different stages. This then brought reflections of my growing times. The memories of how I measured myself against my dad, yearning for the moment that I would walk stride for stride beside him. My dad did not have a dad. I contemplated the difficulties that he may have endured by not having his own measuring dreams. By viewing just one photo, I was engorged by so many memories, feelings and thoughts that the swelling consumed my whole being and the pressure was overwhelming.

When I write, this pressure is released. My emotions leak onto the page, letter by letter and the release is addictive.

I write for selfish reasons. I write for my release. I do not mind others reading my words yet I know that they cannot know the pressures from where my words leak. They cannot know my thoughts and memories although they know their own. Sometimes, my words may rekindle a tsunami of feeling in another and they may use that to release in their own way. I like that thought. I feel something moving inside. I may have to write about it.

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