Years ago, I took a photograph.
Not with a camera, because
I didn’t have one.

I’m glad now, that I was unable
to capture the scene on film.
my observation abilities grew that day.

the panoramic view presented
itself before me and I knew it was
significant. I was young, but I knew.

The room was cozy with a warm
pool of lamp light enhancing a circle
of faces.

My great-grandmother lay, old and sick
in her iron bed. My eyes wandered,
and began recording that day forever.

I took a picture of my aunt’s profile.
Sharp features and long hair piled in a bun.
She was backlit by a lamp.

I rested my eyes on each relative in the room
and took my pictures. The absorption in
my brain was intense and forever documented.

I go back occasionally and visit that room
with it’s many stages of life gathered there.
It wasn’t a pleasant day for me, but it was important.

I look at the picture I took and no detail is missing.
Colors and quilt patterns, knick knacks and do dads,
light and shadow, linoleum floor flowers.
They all belong in the scrapbook of my mind.