The guitar is upright in front of her, like a bass. The sound box comes up to her knees and the neck continues in a straight line to her navel, neatly halving her body. One open hand, the right, rests atop the neck of the guitar. The left hand lies, also open, on the right wrist. She looks off to the right, her gaze fixed on something at eye-level. She wears light slacks and a dark T-shirt, a necklace with a simple pendant. Behind her to her left, a large abstract oil painting above a two-shelf bookcase fixed in the wall and a futon with a striped cushion. Between the bottom of the painting and the top of the futon, her shadow cast against the white wall is like an announcement: amateur photographer at work, knows nothing about lighting. Look, the door is open. Must be summer, probably a screen door beyond the open front door. How do we know it's the front door? Because there's a doorbell box affixed to it. That, and of course I've been there. I remember the room. Most interesting thing in the photograph to me––which you can't see because of the way I've messed around with the images to suggest the distortions of memory––is my shadow against the back of the door. Jessie's shadow is tight and solid. Mine is diffuse and hulking. My head must have been lowered as I looked into the viewfinder. My arms must have been holding the camera body, which might have been on a tripod, so I'm sort of hunched over the camera which gives my shadow that lurking, monstrous look. Almost certainly there was music playing. This was Jessie's house upstate New York. Her parents' house, of course. We were kids. We didn't have houses. Her father was an artist and a jazz musician who played sax. He couldn't bear to hear me play the guitar. He used to tell me, Take whatever you want. Take my daughter, go ahead. Just don't play that guitar in front of me. Funny guy. If he were home, it might be Stan Getz or John Coltrane playing. If he weren't, if we had the house to ourselves, then it was the Rolling Stones, or the Doors, or maybe Jefferson Airplane. But probably Bob Dylan. Jessie and I, we could recite the lyrics of almost every Dylan song. We sang them together, both of us off key, me strumming my handful of chords.