Pictures

Upon entering, my eyes are drawn
To the rectangular, marbled topped, coffee table.
45 photos stand at attention.
Each needs its own narrative.

Young grandchildren, perhaps siblings, smile furiously.
They appear anxious to move on,
Too soon reappearing as fully grown

Here stand my boys,
First as 18 year-olds,
Next at 40, quite changed
But recognizable from their teen years.

Diana and I, tanned and posed,
In a 25 year-old picture,
Taken in a small house
That featured a Porsche in the living room.

My slight sister, stands next to her
Large husband.

There are recent photographs on table,
That show Maddy and I, past our prime,
And Mom, at 97, looks to be our contemporary.

The crowded tabletop leaves me uncomfortable,
Unable to hold the moment,
That lives forever, in the photos.

How often do we decide Mom's future,
In her presence, without her participation?


My sister and I have contended for
Honor of placement for some time.
We now resolve the conundrum
By removing all but 10 photos.
Now the tabletop looks barren,
And fewer stories can be imposed.