IN THE PHOTO

In the photo my mother is beautiful.
Though it is in black and white, I picture her
cheeks rosy as pink Chablis.
Her hair cascades thick and wavy to meet
the soft slant of her shoulders covered demurely
in a dark dress I imagine, a shade of red.
She is smiling coyly for the camera, as if she is
the keeper of some secret, about to spring a surprise.
 
The couch she sits on is splattered with clusters
of tiny white blossoms.
Behind her the wallpaper is enmeshed in huge leaves
pointing skyward; between each two leaves is a
single flower.
The floor linoleum is a characteristic 1950's pattern
of multicolored and sized diagonal stripes.
In the photo my mother is a constant, in surroundings
I can only describe as busy, and so she has been
for most of her life.
 
The photo was taken after mine and my older sister's
birth, before those of our siblings; before school days,
dating, marriages, children, divorces, grandchildren and
all forms of crises imagined or real which have
transformed her once vibrant brown hair to gray,
strand by strand.
Long before wrinkles claimed her face, Arthritis
wreaked havoc on her joints, Osteoporosis settled
in her bones.
 
In the photo my mother is beautiful.
She is poor but happy, innocent and trusting,
hinging on a promise, glimmering with love.