Mama,

    Grandpa gave me some old photographs of you.

    In them you are young,

    and more beautiful than I've known.

    The ones with your parents, our ancestors, surprised me:

    their clothes are smooth, with polished buttons,

    and no one is yet worn or dusty from farm work.

    Near the end of this stack of photos

    you are a child, standing in a white dress —

    it is your First Communion.

    After that, you are fifteen, smiling,

    wearing your home team's colors and glowing,

    blossoming in the full years of youth.

I wish you would come back.