album

So many pictures: small
black and white or sepia,
fastened to the heavy black pages.
The pretty young woman
in the patterned wool swimming costume
lounging against the stone seawall was my mother.
Eighty-two years ago
she could smell the salt
hear the breeze in the tall grass;
now each blade of grass
is as distinct as her dark nail lacquer
her dark curved lips.
The hue of the grass or the lacquer
or her lost dark lips
is a secret
as impenetrable as the identities
of many of her friends
in the other pictures.
Why they had gathered that day
worn those elegant clothes
posed so jauntily
so comfortably
is lost.
Where are the stories, Mother?
A marble slab above your head
is as final as the silence
of these pictures
telling a story I can never hear.