In The Photograph, I’m Smiling

In the photograph, I’m smiling.

My hair is a frenzy of dark curls that my father had pinned two white bows in on either side, just as mother used to before she died.

I remember that day well: we went to the beach just as we always did on mother’s birthday. We liked to walk in the water, halfway up our shins, and I remember the water was ice cold. Mother used to love the beach, and I think going there made my father feel better. Like he had a piece of her he could hold onto.

In the photograph, I’m wearing navy, though you wouldn’t know it by looking. But as I said, I remember that day well, and I remember my swimming garment was navy. In fact, my sister had nearly the same one.

There’s something peculiar about the picture, though. Something to this day I don’t understand. I’m walking with my sister, just as I remember, but my mother is holding my hand.

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Moira is a self-identified space cadet currently trapped in the desolate wasteland of Upstate New York. She was first published at the age of nine in an anthology for children that still lives permanently on her bookshelf. Her hobbies include wine, television, and overthinking everything.

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