Mama's Kodak

I hold in my hand Mama's old fold-up Kodak In its steel-blue case shut with a tiny curved silver latch. I carefully unlatch it, watch the worn-out flaky bellows Extend like an unwelcome, nonfunctional ********, Emitting a strange smell I remember from my childhood Seventy years ago, when Mama sternly warned, "Don't let me catch you playing with my camera! " But I did, every chance I got; it beckoned to me Like the epitome of enticement, the soft furry succulent Cactus she warned us kids never to touch. But I did, once … once, believe me, and never after! And I said her camera was the only thing I wanted That belonged to her when she was gone. The cactus wrinkled and died years ago from lack of care.