I

The day is dark in the photo marked "Peter with Paris behind him." You are even darker: your pitch-black, straight hair, let loose for the day; your copper complexion, freckled even in February; your eyes the color and depth of distressed pine.

From atop the Pompidou, Paris is close. Notre Dame and La Tour Eiffel are at your level. All the rooftops seem neighbors' roofs.

We had stood for a long time in silence looking out over Paris. I clung to your arm for warmth and noticed once again the odd almost-wet feel of the oilskin of your Australian trench coat.

Then you looked at me and said, "We've come home." We'd met in London. It was your first time to Paris. Neither of us had been "home" to Canada for years.

"Then, let's stay," I said.

You turned your back on Paris to face me. I stepped back and took your picture.

We should have stayed. I waited eight hours at the Dover ferry port before being informed that you were not to be let back in.

II

Brenda sent a photo from your backpacking trip. You two are before a rope bridge across a river rippled white with its swiftness. It is a bright, spring day and the sky is large with the North American grandness. You each have your hands on your hips, your feet squared to support your packs, and your braids — hers red and yours black — flipped to the front of your right shoulders. You both look so rugged in plaid, flannel shirts, khaki shorts and hiking boots. So strong and fit and tan and made for the out-of-doors, made to be dwarfed by deep green trees and silenced by wide, white-blue rivers.

She told me. You didn't. She wrote by hand in neat, round, even script. "You know we both love you. You must come visit us." She thought I already knew.

III

Above my desk, next to "Peter with Paris behind him" is a photo of myself in Trafalgar Square. The National Gallery is behind me. Next to me is the pillar on which Nelson's statue sits 180 feet above me.

There are more pigeons in the picture than pillar. It is a bright, sunny, London day and the dozen people between me and the museum are all wearing shorts. I am wearing the kelly green overalls we bought at Camden market that I made into cutoffs. I am wearing the black tank top you gave me because you said I looked sexier in it than you did.

My brown hair is cropped short and I am English-pale. I have under my right arm a small stack of books, my day's heist from Charing Cross Road. I am not looking into the camera, but off to my left. I have the silliest, laughing grin.

This photo of me is looking at the photo of you, looking at me, sitting at my desk, at home.