In the month of her death, she is standing by the windowframe,
a young woman with a stylish, permanent wave.
She seems to be in a contemplative mood
as she stands there looking out the window.
Through the glass an afternoon cloud of 1934
looks in at her, blurred, slightly out of focus,
but her faithful servant. On the outside
I’m the one looking at her, four years old almost,
holding back my ball, quietly
going out of the photo and growing old,
growing old carefully, quietly,
so as not to frighten her.