The Photograph of a Newborn in a Yellow Knitted Hat

I stood over the grass of his grave and listened to the wind rustling the bare branches of the oaks.

For six long weeks, this exact patch of dirt had been the center of my grief.

I took my right hand out of my coat pocket.

Between my fingers was the old photograph Lily had found hidden under the floorboards of the brick duplex.

The sharp edges of the glossy paper were bent.

The bright colors had faded from eleven years locked away in the dark.

It showed me sitting in a wide wheelchair outside the automatic hospital doors, fast asleep, holding a newborn baby.