I snapped that moment, my vision extended through the camera lens, my finger on the shutter, opening the diaphragm for the light needed to capture them. He’s on one knee, his arms around a baby goat. Its white legs dangle, its ears flatten back. Our little daughter leans her weight into his side, her hand on the back of the kid’s neck. Her whole body sings with delight. My past is printed on glossy paper. Flat, with only memory to inflate it. I reach in and feel the rub of her corduroy pants, the slippery nylon puff on his down vest, how his mustache tickled my cheek. Her soft braids. The tug of the purple sweater when I pulled it over her hair. The head of the mother goat enters the lower right corner. White, almost faded now, frozen as she moved to free her baby. Stopped in the act that goat and I, rendered impotent. Cancer, the camera, its shutter snapping closed, first on him, then on her. They’re pinned inside this frame. And we are fixed forever staring in from the corner.