Your hair was darker than the photographer painted it;
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 walk past each other
at the Dixie factory where you sort 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 charm.
What I do know:
you married young,
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 out?
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 ahead of you,
clean and unwrinkled as a bridal bed?
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