Reflection on a Reflection

(Photo: Amy Jia)

There is a child and an older figure, whom I cannot touch. I want to extend my arm towards them, gently, softly, land my fingers on their shoulders—turn around, and look at me; do not turn your backs on me. The water is like a thin veil with two ripple-like, soft green and faded streaks. The two figures, their back-turned walk, is suspended in time. I want to rip open the veil, come face to face with them, at steady, steadfast eye level, then proceed to have a lively conversation together. They are seen but cannot be touched, moved, and changed, and what should I do with this suspension of them, when it aches my heart?