Where Is Mom?

Springtime approaching with a slight chill in the air, sun obscured on this overcast day, birds accompany the moment, their songs lifting our spirit, trees bare, leaves yet to return, like mom. Is anything in this photo real? Someone expects me to believe it is. To view this photograph and see through the lie. To fabricate. If so, I am still left wondering where is mom.

I wonder what is real. This moment. Reality defined in seconds? A snapshot. What I can see, hear, smell, feel, experience? So many questions are unanswered.

Who is the photographer? Is it Mom? If not, where is mom?

What is the girl’s name? Will we ever know!

Is her smile real? I have my doubts! Perhaps forced.

What is her relationship with the man? Not clear.

Her dad, or an uncle, neighbor, a brother, possibly no relation, a stranger, an actor.

What is the man’s name? Will we ever know!

Is his smile real? I think so, but.

What happens when the moment past and I am left with a fading image, a vague feeling? Was it real?

Here is my account.

Anabelle, age eight, is being picked up by Jack, her uncle. Somewhere back east, I guess, Upstate New York. Anabelle, our third grader, comfortable being greeted by her Uncle Jack, wonders. “This is not normal. Where is mom?”

Hugs all around, smiles, but what is the occasion? Looking at Anabelle’s face, I wonder. Perhaps an unconscious, undefinable wonder, an uneasiness. Mom was to pick her up today, like every day. Mom greets her, like a finely tuned clock, and walks her home asking how was her day? Any papers from the teacher? What did you have for lunch? School questions that every parent asks, every day.

But why Uncle Jack? The awkward hug. A hug that yells, “I haven’t seen you for months, smile, I have some terrible news.”

Stop! Wait. Do you see that, in the background, the vehicle? Motion. There, movement inside, someone is watching. Without looking, walk away. I hear the engine start; the vehicle is inching along as we walk.

As I photograph this moment, I query, is it time to leave? It has been days since we last heard from mom. That day last week we found the note.

“I have been called by an organization, so take care. I will return when the mission is fulfilled, this I pledge. Seems I have access to information that might bear witness to a questionable undertaking of interest to a higher power. Love mom.” A note not written for a third grader. A note not written by a mom.

Upon arriving home, the same vehicle stopped across the street, engine idling. Inside, Uncle Jack locks the door. On the table is a suitcase with Anabelle’s belongs. Next to the table were two strangers, a woman and a man, normal dress, on one hip a gun, one the other a shiny badge both with sunglasses looped over their belts. Where is mom?

Between the two adults, stands dad in handcuffs, in the background blinded by sun light two more men in matching jackets with the letter FBI embossed in bright yellow letters.

Dad bends down, balances on one knee, calls me over, and whispers, “It will be alright, go with these two, they will take you to mom. I have to help these officers, but will see you later, I promise.”

Girls name, we will never know.

The man’s name, we will never know.

Out front sirens announce the arrival of law enforcement, surround the mysterious vehicle, while the two US Marshals hustle Anabelle out the back door, garbing the suitcase, speed walking through backyard out the gate, into an unmarked vehicle.

The promise, broken.

Where is mom…WITSEC

MoMo Productions via Getty Images