A few years back, my eldest son insisted on helping me clean out the attic, which I admit was quite overdue. And what a blessing the task turned out to be! For I found several photographs in a box of old keepsakes that warmed my heart. I am enclosing just one of them, as I’m afraid the others were too blurry to share—if only I’d paid better mind to lessons from the friend who had lent me her camera. Oh, and I did save a good one for myself. I hope you won’t fault me.

In closing, I pray this message finds you and yours in good health and spirits. I continue to think of you and your father often and will cherish our memories together always.

Most sincerely,

Anne (Roosa) Corman

***

In my dressing room at the Marquis Theater in Chicago, I should be focused on tonight’s impending show. I ought to be rechecking all the pockets, pulls, and compartments I’ve built into my costume, a black satiny ensemble of shorts and a tailored coat. Instead, seated at my vanity, I’m hampered by distraction.

Passed along by the box office this afternoon, the photograph from Miss Roosa sits with her letter, propped against my mirror. It’s a picture of me and Papa, an image I’d never seen. Having believed the photo I’d lost while escaping the orphanage was the sole one of us together, the sheer existence of the picture before me feels surreal, additionally for this reason: I’ve no recollection of it being taken. Thus, to be staring at proof I was there is fantastically strange.

In contrast to the portrait I’d treasured, this particular photo is an informal snapshot. No prim outfits or poses, no proper studio lighting. We’re simply seated at a kitchen table, where I’m too busy gobbling down what was surely Miss Roosa’s Dutch butter cake to connect with the camera. Papa, hovering a fork over his plate, maintains a flat line with his lips. His eyes hold a twinkle, however, an internal smile he couldn’t hide from the lens.

It’s all so imperfect. And real. And beautiful.

Like life.

I try to resist, but my mind implores I consider yet another hypothetical: If I’d been more persistent, could I have convinced Papa to stay in Little Chute and marry Miss Roosa? There would have been no hunger from the strike, no tragedy of the stampede, no devastation and heartache over losing the boy I loved more deeply than I could ever describe.

But then I realize I would never have known Arie. And no matter where that leaves me today, I can’t fathom anything worse.