You never recognize everyone,
in an old photograph.
I can’t try to pretend,
that their faces are familiar.
three faces,
of seven.
One is pouting, almost frowning,
that’s me.
I have not altered,
I still hate birthdays.
I changed only in looks,
and vocabulary.
Stagnant.
Amanda, the second,
as close as a sister.
Three years older,
hands on hips.
She craved a career,
the Air Force.
Her goal was good grades,
and stability.
She had everything she needed,
to join the military.
He arrived,
not a boyfriend.
Pregnant.
The final face,
one of Joy.
He lived eighty five years,
and I cried at the end.
His harmonica, buried with him,
his last sounds were words.
“Tell the girls I love them”
he said on the hospital phone.
Dead.
You never recognize everyone,
in an old photograph.
What you do recognize,
causes pain.
I don’t recommend looking,
unless you’re a *******.