Apollo 11

The only picture I have of Jerry and my mother together was taken the moment Americans landed on the Moon on the afternoon of July 20, 1969, which was also the day I was more or less born. He placed the camera on the television and set the timer, my mother gravid on the arm of the chair, one arm held protectively over her abdomen in a self-conscious attempt to conceal her 8-month swelling, the other twined with Jerry's holding a shotglass to toast the landing. They are in extreme profile pretending to look fondly into each other's eyes, but Jerry is casting a sidelong glance, either wondering why the shutter hasn't clicked or anxious not to miss the moment when Armstrong would emerge from the lunar module Eagle, my mother's eyes downcast to the table where her cigarette lay smoldering, stained by her lips.

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