The Backpack Press

I started to write about two young girls
in a black and white photograph;
they are sitting together on a porch.

It is Easter and a baby sits between them,
a full woven basket on his lap,
long sleeves, long skirts, button shoes.

They are carefree and breezy,
and hopelessly demure.
And I think of my Easters, too.

Dressing up for spring,
taking photos of everyone
standing in front of new flowers.

But I am distracted and the photo fades
and I can only think of you now,
the way you knew how to make me laugh.

It’s a funny thing all these years later
that I can’t remember much more than this:
You made me feel safe enough to laugh.