There is an old photograph in my family albums, circa 1966.
It’s my mother at seventeen.
When I was a little girl,
I used to think,
Who is this beautiful young woman in this photograph?
Until I knew it was my mother when she was seventeen.
A portrait of a mother as a young woman.
My mother has since left this world,
But the photograph stayed on my shelf.
I say good morning to my mom every day as if she could talk to me.
I kiss the photograph wishing that I can kiss my mom and still tell her how much I love her.
1966
From my book of poetry Sunset in Toronto, page 86.