Linda Parsons Marion

My mother sends the baby pictures she promised— egg hunting in Shelby Park, wooden blocks and Thumbelina tossed on the rug, knotty pine walls in a house lost to memory. I separate out the early ones, studying my navel or crumbs on the tray, taken before my awareness of Sylvania Superflash. Here I am sitting on the dinette table, the near birthday cake striking me dumb. Two places of wedding china, two glasses of milk, posed for the marvelous moment: the child squishes the fluted rosettes, mother claps her hands, father snaps the picture in the face of time. When the sticky sweet is washed off the page, we are pasted in an album of blessed amnesia. The father leaves the pine house and sees the child on weekends, the mother stores the china on the top shelf until it’s dull and crazed, the saucer-eyed girl grips her curved spoon like there’s no tomorrow.