Creased and tucked behind the ID in
my wallet, is a photograph
of my mother,
sitting in a simple square rocking chair,
gazing lovinlgy down at
the newborn cradled reverently
to her chest, a smile softens her face
into one I do not recognize,
transformed by the miracle in her arms
I am rarely allowed to hold,
her first grandchild, only hours old.

She turns to gaze through the lens,
eyes burning through time, finding mine
and her expression falls flat,
aging into the woman I would face
a year from then.
Her lips curling back, exposing yellowed teeth,
face twisting in disgust to revive in vivid color
the image imprinted on my memory
of my mother's rejection
each time I dare look at it
reeling back in fresh pain.

But I cannot bear to discard
the only image I have
of my niece,
so I tuck it carefully away
between one-dollar bills
for another day.