One of Many Photographs of My Mother as a Child

     Young enough to smile in anyone’s arms,
     Mary smiles, held by her father’s father.
     She knows the world is in love with her.
     The camera loves her too, and her father
     behind it.  She wears a pinafore and a plaid bow
     in her hair; she holds up her three fingers.
     He has seen enough of the world
     and still misses his teeth, manages his best smile
     without them.  Which isn’t lovely, isn’t large.
     She strokes his gold pocket watch, lightly, lightly,
     and thinks because she touched it, soon it will be hers.

     The world loves us while we are here,
     and today the music in it is made by tractors,
     by chickens scratching up dust.  Then near the trees,
     a fawn reveals itself like a gift, leaps to its mother.
     The deer bends her head to the fawn.

     They have spoken of his wife.  He is lonely and homesick
     for her.  Because the weather permits,
     he makes Mary wooden boxes, more than she can use,
     more than her parents can bring home, for filling
     with anything, for filling the space.


     Kathleen McGookey  (Click for bio.)


      


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