She wears
her Say Cheese smile,
as if the joy of childhood
could be conjured
like a spell.
Hair tied back in a ponytail,
dress smoothed by careful hands,
as if order
could keep shadows away.
She doesn't know
how brave she is
to be sitting still
with all that storm
burning behind her eyes.
I look at her now
with the ache of knowing.
Not just the way her nights
grew long and heavy,
but how she kept walking anyway—
to school, to friends,
into the wide, bewildering years ahead.
If I could,
I would reach through
the gloss of that photograph,
take her hand,
and tell her
that none of it
was ever
her fault.
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