You don’t belong
In old photographs.

You weren’t meant to exist
On paper
Trapped in a frame.

You belong in a garden.

Your pristine
Manicure nails
Belong in the dirt,
Digging for bulbs
And roots.

You’re too colorful
For a scene
Of black and white,
Too intricate
To be a memory.

I watched
As your body became
An object.
I saw you stop being you
In a hospital bed.

You looked delicate.

You’ve never,
Never,
Been delicate.

You’ve been feminine
And beautiful,
But always along side
Strength.

New York farm girl,
With a touch of
Glamour,
An elegant survivor.

You told my sister
And I
You would still sneak out to the garden,
And not to tell.
We never told.

You were never meant to be
Less than yourself.

Your blood
Runs through my veins,
Your fortitude in every step.
Your cheer in my smile,
Your movie star beauty
In all of our faces.

You were never
Meant to be
An old photograph.