Picture on the Parlor Wall

She'd been staring at me since I can recall. A da Vinci saccharine smile painted on her lips that I'd traced with fingertips in my youth. Forsooth wondering, "Who are you, comely lady, and why does no one ever mention your name?" Eyes of melancholy, but not a tear had she spilled. For years now, I'd asked that the truth be told why she'd been given a place on the parlor wall, yet no one speaks of her with honor or a trace of how gracefully she sat on that stiff backed chair. A fetching look adorned the face of this exquisite lass, whose lustrous raven hair was released from its chignon. What sin had she committed that's kept her story hidden and her name omitted or deleted from the family Bible? In gold gilded frame, what blame does she still carry? What thrust and parry duel must she have fought, perhaps for love. Her presence hangs in oils but despoiled. Aged painting of this alluring woman remains a mystery to me, but I see in her eyes, a familiarity I recognize each time I peer into the mirror on the vestibule wall.