Gayatri

I have a picture of us when we are seven

but we aren’t in it. At the time it was taken

we thought we were. We posed with our wide

grins and best-friends-forever certainty. I angled

the camera to capture us in front of a Christmas tree.

All the sparkling tinsel and dangling silver balls aren’t there.

There is only the ceiling and the tip

of the pine needle. There isn’t a star or an angel

on top. I have kept this picture of us for years,

the only one to remember and laugh at what happened

to us then. It was taken before a time when you could

see a picture on a screen, see how it turned out

and decide whether it was worth keeping. I think of you

now and again, the plain peanut butter sandwiches we ate

with apples. You said you were going to be a dentist

when you grew up, and with a fork and a spoon

you determined it was possible I would live

and sent me home with a bag full of Twizzlers and hair bands.