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Everyone has photographs—
family souvenirs—
that a branding iron
has impaled upon
their memories
is the beach that caused
my father to work
his ass off so that
his family could have
on the North Shore of Long Island
The second image was photographed
by my father or mother
with the other looking out the window
at our lawn in Whitestone,
our winter home
It features their fifteen-year-old son
and eighteen-year-old daughter
The latter had only ten more years
to live so that—fifty-six years hence—
the former could say
I love you Linda
and the same goes for your parents
Kiss them for me
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