Sepia

Sepia-toned inside my mind,
as in the only photograph
there ever was, asleep or looking
like he was but even then, it
was his baby shell arranged,
head turned, hand there,
the folds of baby clothes
around a body that I never held
(and truly, I was much too young).
If it had been in color, if I saw the red
there in his hair just like the sons
who lost an uncle long ago, perhaps
it would be different. I don't know.
He would be 55 this week; we'd
throw a party, gather in the troops,
but ghosts of never don't exist,
they can not haunt the living.
There was no girl-child born for him
to marry, never in the plan, no destiny of
playground laughter, skinning knees
or fishing, all those happy times
I wish we'd shared, no more than static
scenes in sepia within a frame.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015