Jonathan Cohen

From 2005.

I am a photographer.

I am a father to Emily, a husband to Giselle. But my craft, my art, and my living come from looking through the glass and framing the perfect moment. As Emily and Giselle struggle to become comfortable in the formal clothes, I wait. I believe there is only one chance to take a photograph — the perfect moment the eyes reveal themselves.

We do not have long. Even with the doors of the studio closed, I can hear young soldiers in the street, tromping with oversized boots, and oversized caps, and guns that are just the right size. Like schoolboys, fighting in the yard. “Why can’t Papa be in the picture?” Emily demands. Giselle holds her close, avoiding my eyes. “Someone must take the photograph,” Giselle explains.

We never send women off to fight. I watch through the glass as Emily frowns. Women are too delicate, the men say. But they do not see women as I have — Giselle’s fierce eyes when she saw my orders; Emily’s innocent feral look when I caught her pulling wings from a dragonfly. In their eyes, the same bloodlust.

Giselle looks at me one last time, and the veils in her gaze fall away. We each fight in our own way, her eyes say, and I will fight to keep you until they drag you away. Then Emily kisses Giselle’s cheek, and Giselle looks away, into the distance, into the future.

Click.