I thumb through the box
to find one photograph,
black and ecru,
four adults
smiling.
My mother as a young woman,
string of pearls, bouquet of flowers.
Your hair is combed, but
one curl reaches high.
I can only
imagine your
expression.
Your craned neck lifted up as
double-chins and cat-eye glasses beam back.
The men wear carnations; women,
what passed for hats.
My mother bends
down to
speak,
while my father stands, hands crossed,
the minutes-old ring on his finger.
And now fifty years later
My mother hands me
a small glimpse
of our
childhood.
Your innocence, my cross to bear,
but proof we were both loved.
“Clearwater, 1962” was printed in Tracks, No. 9 of Inwood Indiana. Pick up the paperback from Prolific Press; the stories and poems published online are free to read here.
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