You are the problem. The wind repeats it in the voice of your mother. The river repeats it in the language of erosion. The tree repeats it in the slow mathematics of growth. The cat repeats it by placing one paw on the delete key. The girls repeat it until the words lose their meaning, until meaning becomes sound, until sound becomes sensation— the small disturbance that moves through a mind when another mind says your name. Then, at last, the sentence changes. You are the witness. Not the owner of the record. Not the author of the evidence. The witness. And the witness is also in the photograph.
