A portraiture is an image of a person that encompasses who they were, how they felt, and how they presented, in a singular moment in time; it is what remains of an "instantaneous imprint" as time persists into the future. A cyclical future, of course.

So I trapped my mother inside a disposable camera while we were on vacation in Hawaii, last December. We had been traversing between volcanic rock, sand, and trees on the beach. Here, she is positioned on a narrow sand path between nature's elements. In the far left distance you can see the hint of the ocean, on the right there are luxurious vacation homes. But it is her small scale in relation to all the other objects, specifically the trees and the bushes on the ground, that speaks to her impactful unimportance.

Between the elements of nature and distinct White Lotus-esque destination-home elitism, my mom, my sole parent is so small and childlike. The vibrant pink and yellow colors of her bikini contrasts the deep green of the greenery, the brown minimalism of the vacation houses, and the blues that blend the distinction between ocean and sky. She is the smooth between jagged rock, textured leaves, and hanging branches; she is my ever-changing amidst the unchanging.

She had been entrapped here since the beginning, I believe. A long time ago, she set the similar roads to walk the path of betrayal, leaving her sisters behind for the fruits of assimilation and terribly-fawned American accents. And she has since been frozen in time by my own fiercest enemies and by my own birth, and so it is my mission to set her free. Like that one Tyra Banks movie, I’ve been animated to accompany my Lindsay Lohan.

Mother fear-mongers and starts wars, pursuing the rest after the final battle. She rules authoritatively, leaving not much room for her doll to dream. And yet she does, and always has because she’s always been weak in the honorable sense. Soft in the friendliest sense. When I cry she yells in discomfort and soothes in generational understanding. And the reality is that my beloved has been relentlessly suffocated — much like me — between the elements, as she respectfully wanders the Earth like a child. But this time she drags her Cabbage Patch by the wrist in her right hand, her dominant hand so her grip can never let loose. As the prospects of bourgeoisie fantasy looms over her head, she drowns me beneath it as well, both of us full of despair and innocent wanderlust, hoping to rest our feet and minds on one glorious princess-y day.

She presents her stern iron-fist to a world that promotes static adulthood, motherhood depraved of personhood, and an unquenchable thirst for a wealth never coming, yet she remains much like me. I have inherited, inhaled and regurgitated the truest nature of her battered youthful aura and wanderlust.

Now blind, we push forth the encroached path demanding to a patch of sand to make room for our bruised toes, just one more time, just one more time until we reach the end of the road— together.