The month she died,

she is standing at her window,

a young woman wth an elegant permanent

in a brown photograph

pensively looking otside.

Outside, an afternoon cloud of 1934

is gazing at her—blurred, unfocused,

but faithful to her forever.  Inside,

the someone looking at her is me,

almost four years old,

stopping my ball in air,

slowing stepping out of the photograph

and growing old, growing old

carefully, quietly,

so as not to startle her.