Your hair was darker than in the picture,
styled in careful finger waves framing your face
(your nose not yet showing the Polish bump
I am terrified of developing in my own middle age).
The slim bow of your smile slightly
compressed as if to stifle a laugh.

There's so much I don't know,
not even how you met.
I imagine you, walking past each other
at the Dixie factory where you sorted cups--
he asks a friend your name,
buys you a cup of coffee in the cafeteria.
It is hot and too strong, and you like
his Irish boy's charm.

What I do know:
You married young, nineteen.
Lost your first child, a son,
his name and grave a mystery.
Raised four daughters,
opened a diner together,
vacationed in Florida.

But that day, was it warm?
Did you walk to the studio on your lunch break?
Giggle with your friends and discuss wedding plans,
annoy the photographer,
as your whole life stretched out ahead of you,
clean and unwrinkled as a bridal bed?

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