Somewhere I have a photograph
of you: three, fat and
happy at Maryann’s table and
spreading your pudding dessert
onto the tablecloth, the messy artist
caught in the moment of creation.

I want to hold that picture and
breathe in again your proud fingers
suspended over the table, your eyes
already knowing what pleasure
you will bring to us, your laugh
sounding silently in the fixed frame.

I need to see you there, held in
the blues and browns and reds and
innocently unaware that one faulty
piece of your heart would weaken and
nearly give up when you were fifteen
and still laughing.