Waking

An amateur's new reflex camera,

a joke to get them laughing.

An instant clipped from a sumer afternoon.

Who are they? I ask.

They're in a field, row of trees behind them

Skirts to their ankles, white blouses.

And the men— shirtsleeves, suspenders,

hats perched high on their heads.

So easy to mistake their age.

That's Judith, Grandpa's first wife

(looking down, sun in her eyes)

and that's your grandma there

(hand smothers a giggle)

And then the figures lift a little, become

stereoscopic by some mixture

of daylight through yellow curtains,

my mother's voice reciting names,

my eyes' new skill at shifting focus.

There's the surprise:

my grandparents were once young.

If they could just stay like this,

resting lightly on the Kodak paper.

Are there more? I ask.