It is 2021. They are 15, 14, 12, and 9.
We stand in front of a historical house,
shingled and rain gray, all of us in shades
of black and white, more ourselves than not.
The brighter shots are on an old bridge,
sun drenched between a puddle-pond
and a barn that’s peeling its paint.
What both is and is not in the picture
will be known to us later. I’ll turn
to the photo on the fridge,
finger smudged, taking in
the unknowns of then,
before facial hair
after baby fat
before acne…
The curves of our faces
hope at smiling, what I hope
to be contentment. Even
the breezes around us quiet—
a little calm was due, and
the portrait not quite perfect
is captured, all, none, some:
snapping us to attention.
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