I have a picture somewhere. It’s in black and white. I took it with a used Konica Auto S2 I got for fifty bucks when I was 16. I was shooting Tri-X at 400. The photo shows my dad sitting at the window of our apartment in the Bronx. It’s raining hard outside. My dad is in a white tee-shirt. He is smoking a Philip-Morris cigarette. A can of Schaefer is on the windowsill. You can see the therapy swimming pool of the Kingsbridge Vets Hospital across the street. Wild scallions are growing against the gate. My dad is looking at me, all grumble-y, like “WHAT? What is it?” I don’t know where the physical photo is. But it’s scanned, in deep storage, inside my brain.