Two Photographs
An art that heals and protects its subject
is a geography of scars.
—Wendell Berry
First:
The photographer took a wonderful shot;
Mary is forever full-cheeked, her face glowing,
the body of her reddish hair vibrantly touching
each side of the picture’s frame.
She holds a Mickey Mouse (her favorite)
as if inviting her children to play today.
She looks relaxed, shoulders loose, the smooth line
of her peaceful smile never betraying,
this is the picture that has to last.
This, the single image that will forever mean mommy:
She smiles on, eyes bright with anticipation.
Second:
The children think of their life with her
as one might a fairytale—no homework, no bedtime,
no Brussels sprouts, no lightening storms;
Mary means forever summer and splashing in the pool.
Mary means only a mommy of perfect pleasure.
Hidden in a shoe box is a black and white photograph
I’ve only seen once:
Mary is lying in her hospital bed,
a few weeks before her death.
She is wilted,
the definition of her body only the slightest outline under the sheets;
her hair is flat and limp against the pillow.
The children, scrubbed to shining,
had wandered, crying down the hall
to see the nurse station’s fish tank brimming
with yellow, red, blue, and purple exotic fish.
Don’t, she said, ever let them see this photograph.
"Two Photographs" first appeared in The New Writer (June 2002)
Copyright 2000: J. Elizabeth Clark
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