White bordered, oval-framed,
Formed of nuanced Kodak greys.
Your romper suit unsullied
By crease or cereal or reflux.
Dark eyes shining.
Your face one careless grin.
Your parents’ pride and joy!
In America, your mother tucked your picture among
Pages of closely-written airmail paper.
In Australia, my mother retrieved it with delight.
That was you in San Mateo once
and you in memory until last year
when we met again online.
Now both middle aged and bereaved.
You, the last of your tribe,
Finding comfort in baseball and heavy metal.
Me, chronicler of mine,
Finding hope in myriad small connections.
Jan Pittard© 2018
