ekphrastic
The photo of you,
at nineteen.
Dad’s favorite,
from the brief and eternal island
of your summer courtship,
just before the ceremonies and the six of us,
sweeps us back, and
we can see,
the wind was blowing your nearly blonde hair back
far away
back into your growing up days,
your arms flung as wide and open
as all the world,
your eyes almost closing with
the freedom and pleasure of
being lifted on the breeze
above all the muddy stuff,
all the crusty wishes of others.
A skirt,
in the wind,
could ask your knee for a dance
and so you shouldn’t,
and didn’t,
refuse.
The wings of your smile fill the sky.
Thank you mom,
for that day,
for sending it forward.
We receive it
and promise to live,
forever nineteen,
in the blossoming flower,
the consuming love
you released
into that one
click of a shutter.
James E. Stephenson is the oldest of six brothers and sisters. He grew up in one-high-school towns in Texas and Arkansas. He earned degrees from Yale and Duke. He was a trial lawyer for 18 years. Then, he led a 1,000-employee company for 25 years. Now, he writes.
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