Cleaning Out My Office

Photographs saved for last,
family chronology in
eleven frames, gilt, maple,
and burled walnut.

No pictures of my beloved—a  
gem not unveiled for colleagues,
the firm line between friend and work.

But my daughters, yes—a
daily dose of joy—the rose 
and lily, bud and bloom, as budget 
cuts decapitate scholarship, 
and grant money seizes the crown.

The first photo—me and the 
baby veterinarian, 1994—I am 
forty, she, one and a half. 
Summer—her frilly pink bathing 
suit, compliments my white tank-top 
and green running shorts.

Solo shots—three and four, 
summertime again, favorite 
dresses—Smokey the cat barely
grasped behind his forelegs, wears 
a most tolerant grimace. 

Number two, the neuroscientist,
arrives four years later. She is
tranquil as the first is active—
and I tumble to the fact that
behavior is a roll of genetic dice.

Decades pass—pictures,
milestones and mundanity, 
Sisters together, missing teeth 
Bat Mitzvahs and graduations,
Cum Laude and Summa.

Where will these photos hang 
in a new life?
How will I hold so much 
unearned joy?