There was life before us br br my sister and I discovered br looking at photographs br br we shouldn't have been looking at br of the English girl my father br br was engaged to during the war. br Here she is right in front of our eyes, br br the woman before my mother, br in a black lace cocktail dress, br br a cigarette in a holder, br pensive, earthy—waiting br br in front of the carved wooden radio, br for news from the front. br This is the war, after all, br and here she is again, somewhere br br on an English beach, draped br across my father's shoulder br br all of her silky skin radiant br above the soft folds of sun dress. br br They stand in front of a sign br that reads 'Seaside Cottages, br br two dollars.' And here she is br again, painted onto the cockpit br br of my father's plane with hardly br anything on at all, and here he is br br in his flight jacket, looking br in fact, happy. My sister and I each br br lift our pencils like cigarettes, br taking long sultry drags to puff br out invisible rings. They rise br in the air like silver nooses br br that will catch our father br and hold him to us.