The curly
script on the back
of this
grainy photograph
says your
name
was Mary Christian. But
what is
behind
faded
graphite?
Did you
always wear your hair
piled up
in stylish do
like in
this portrait?
Did you
marry? Did you
sing? Did
you pass on your
famous shepherd’s
pie recipe?
Mary, if
I said your name out
loud,
imploring quietly, would
you hear,
would you sigh,
would you
say
“I’m
here”?
Maybe I’d
be crazy,
expecting
your reply.
But maybe
I’d be lucky to
hear you
from someone
else’s
lips.
The girl,
the girl
two feet from me,
sitting
at this café. Perhaps
she is
your great-granddaughter,
she has
your hazel eyes.
She gets
up and says
“Excuse
me,” as she bumps
into my
chair. She’s going home
to open
cupboards, make
your
shepherd’s pie.
I see you
embracing over a
steaming
plate.
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