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 *******.