I'd say, to the young version of myself, that this is the best that there is, this heat in Darrous, the smell of asphalt, my father in his studio, driven and vigorous, my mother in her pink coat, spraying Taft on her hair in front of the crystal mirror, my sister laughing while getting up in a white house protected against the ravage of time.  I'd watch as he takes out the big Polaroid from its box and heads to the rose garden. I'd suppress the vision of the kid washing his face in the Joub, my blonde friends saying Eew, the shame of being from a third world country, of having so much, is it fair?  My older self says yes. He says everyone pays, that every life has its slivers of golden rays, that you are too little for big thoughts, their gaze meeting half way from an absolutely glorious past to a future of utter dismay. From the rulers of the free world to the donkeys at the airport.  From handsome men winning gold to the bald men spat upon.  Yes, he says, on this sunny day.