Fifteen Years After My Father Changed the Locks, He Seated Me at Table Twenty-Two
I set it carefully on the table between our coffee mugs, turning it so the morning sunlight coming through the front window caught the glossy surface.
Our mother was sitting on the front fender of the green station wagon, wearing her yellow cotton dress and smiling at the camera.
I was sitting on the hood beside her, eight years old, holding a wooden spoon in a paper cup of vanilla ice cream while Clare leaned against my knee.
Clare touched the corner of the photograph with her thumb, smoothing the tiny crease along the border.
She reached into her purse and pulled out a fresh white index card, sliding it across the Formica toward my hand.
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