It's a colored, black and white picture
of her and me, years ago.

There is sorrow in her eyes
when she smiles for the camera.
As I lay my tiny cheeks
against hers.

She looks young, very young,
my mother.
She looks pretty, then and now,
she still is.

My tiny hands cling to hers.
Her hands hold me
out of the frame.
My eyes look elsewhere
while hers look straight,
with deep hidden meanings
at the camera,
at the man who takes it.