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I spied a corner of a wooden picture frame inside the box.
What is it?
A picture.
Well, duh, but of what?
Someone special.
Of me?
My mother scoffed and we lifted the frame out of the box. The
picture was rolled up in white bandages like a mummy. I started
unwinding it carefully. Maybe it was a picture of our family, though
we never took a group portrait. Maybe it was a painting by a fam-
ily friend. Finally I just ripped the bandages off.
I gasped. I stared. And the face of Pope John Paul II stared back
at me.
OH. MY. GOD.
The Pope wore gleaming white floor-length robes with a
short cape tied around his shoulders. A gold chain with a cross
shone on his chest, and covering the top of his balding head was
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happy birthday or whatever
a small white disk of cloth. Facing the camera, he stretched out
his arms with palms turned up, as if he were waiting for a hug.
The Pope seemed ghostly, a pale figure standing in front of a dark
and empty background. His sunken eyes gazed steadily ahead and
he looked eerily peaceful and solemn, as if he were waiting for
good news that he already knew about. But the most noticeable
characteristic about the Pope was the size. The picture was three
feet wide and over three feet tall a massive, monolithic, full-
body shot of the pontiff that floated in a sea of bubble wrap on
our kitchen floor.
Oh no, what have you done? Where did you get this?
From church.
You have to give it back. I can t believe this. It s so big. I mean,
look how big this is. I stood next to it so my mother could see that
the top of the picture came up to my waist.
Anne, I tell you, it not big, you short.
No way. It s like a hundred feet tall.
It POPE. Be nice.
But why does it have to be so big?
Shh, Anne, shhhh.
What, you think he hears me?
The glossy Pope was framed with a matte border that, upon
closer inspection, was not matte at all, but white silk with a faint
floral pattern. The frame itself was dark, polished wood, about five
inches thick, and a plate of heavy glass protected the photograph.
It was a nice frame, of solid construction. Immediately I thought of
other pictures that could replace John Paul II, maybe Kurt Cobain
or even a pleasant landscape. I examined the back and sadly dis-
covered that the photograph was sealed inside the frame, a trans-
parent vault that captured one man in one pose for the rest of my
life. My mother pulled out a tape measure and noted the dimen-
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sions. She looked up from the photograph and scanned the empty
walls in the kitchen.
NOT EVEN. You CANNOT put this thing up. It s horrible.
And it s heavy. It s gonna tear the wall down.
No, no, we can put up.
But it s gonna scare everyone.
Anne, stop.
Jesus Christ, just look at it!
Anne! You mouth!
My mother s eyes burned right through me. She walked out of
the kitchen and down the hallway, scanning walls and assessing
lighting options. I followed closely behind. She stopped and gazed
at an empty space between two windows.
No, you can t put it there, there s not enough space.
She brushed me aside and pulled out a tape measure. Luckily, I
was right. The picture was too wide.
How about in the closet?
Anne, stop, I get very mad.
Ok, fine, how about behind the door in the closet?
She ignored me and walked into the den. She looked curi-
ously at a large photograph of Mike and me when we were little;
we were standing in front of a waterfall on Jeju, an island off the
Korean peninsula. I was wearing a white ruffled blouse with puffy
sleeves and pants so pink they looked like I had gone wading in a
pool of Pepto-Bismol. My brother s green collared shirt hung on
for dear life around his protruding belly and his striped tube socks
were pulled up to his pudgy knees. We were both grinning at my
father behind the camera; I had small white nubs for front teeth.
Wait, you re going to take down that picture for HIM? You
don t even KNOW him.
Anne, I think you talk too much.
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You are not allowed to touch that picture.
Anne, go away.
MOM, YOU CAN T PUT IT THERE!
OK. OK, ayoo.
She growled and walked toward the front door. She stood pen-
sively in front of a large, empty wall.
Oh no way. Not here.
No, it good, Mommy like here. Shh, why you not be quiet,
Anne?
But it s too close to the front door!
So?
So? So people will SEE IT.
She reached for her tape measure. I plastered myself against the
wall and stretched out my arms so she couldn t measure.
Anne, you move, NOW.
No, this isn t right! I can t let you do this. You re gonna have
to kill me first.
My mother stormed away and yelled for my father. He promptly
showed up with a toolbox and a stepstool. My heart sank but I
stood steadfast against the wall.
Dad, please don t do this to us.
Annie, you have to move.
Why don t you put it in your bedroom?
Because Mommy want put picture here.
I m sure it d be OK if you hung it in your bedroom.
I don t want it in the bedroom.
Well I don t want it next to the front door.
Annie, move out of the way. I m sorry, but you lose.
We all lose.
He peeled me off the wall, set down the step stool, and plugged
in his drill. Using museum-grade wall anchors and four-inch nails,
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my father hung up the picture. I stared at him in disbelief; he was
aiding and abetting poor taste, a sin really.
But don t you think it s a little too big, like maybe just a little
over the top?
My father sighed and looked down at me from the step stool. I
think it fine. Be nice to you mommy. You both yell and scream, I get
such headache, you know? I m an old man and you make me older.
A few hours later I heard the front door open, followed by a gur-
gling, choking noise and a deep-throated laugh. My brother had discov-
ered the pale-faced stranger staring at him. I joined Mike in the foyer.
Dude, is this some kind of joke?
I know, I know. I shook my head.
What the hell? It s so huge. She s totally lost her shit.
We stood in front of the photograph, dumbfounded and oddly
absorbed. The picture had a peculiar magnetism to it, like a piece of
eye-torturing art or pornography. I wondered what kind of shoes
John Paul II was wearing under those robes. What footwear pos-
sibly goes with papal garb? Dainty, soft-soled slippers? Italian
leather dress shoes?
Dude, why did you let her do this next to the front door?
How is this my fault? I tried to stop her. And, you know, it
could be worse. It could be in your bedroom.
He shuddered. It doesn t even go with the house.
The picture hung near a long scroll of traditional Korean callig-
raphy and a blue vase painted with a scene from a fifteenth-century
Korean countryside.
Nothing goes with this. Except a church.
Well, can we take it down?
We weighed the possibilities: my mother s wrath (and, per-
haps, God s) for deposing the Pope or the constant abuse from
friends for this jumbo JP2.
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happy birthday or whatever
I doubt it. Dad anchored it to the house. It s never coming
down.
My friends reactions, upon seeing the Pope greet them at the
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