Photographs

If nothing else, I do amuse myself; I chuckle, thinking where this all will end - all my possessions, lined up on the shelf, with which, one day, my children will contend. Five years ago, my mother passed away, her photos stored in boxes in my home. I opened up the first the other day; at first, it seemed a wondrous place to roam. A thousand images of times gone by, unlabeled faces from so long ago, have all gone to a cardboard tomb to die, kept there for reasons only Mom would know. My poems, like my mother’s photographs: In me, I see my kids, and I just laugh…