This afternoon in the kitchen, Robby and I chase each other around the table— Hey hey we’re the Monkees—until my dad comes booming in shouting about the damn racket at this hour on a Saturday. He’s a security guard and worked all night long. Robby holds my hand. I try not to pee.

The photograph shows the falls flinging down colossal volumes of water with so much violence, some shatters into a mist. The roar must be terrifying, sweeping all commercialism aside, the pink-and-red bridal suites irrelevant, a primal force that announces its plan to use the couples gazing at it for its own ends.