Photograph

Once we knew she would never heal,
my mother packed her apartment.
She sorted through old catalogs filled
with sewing patterns, the pieces to an unfinished
quilt, and a box of photographs kept
in the back of her closet that told a new narrative,
different from mother-in-law, or grandmother.

Months after her death, I found them,
hidden behind newer, more familiar pictures.
In the faded browns and greys she stands in a group,
smiling at a young man, their names and a date
penned on the back, distal secrets, hidden in neat cursive.