In album pages, I look
at thirty-year-old photos—
a skinny girl with short black hair
parted to the side
with a pin
securely placed
by her mother.

Her eyes hold
personality,
joy,
and unknowing.

I place my finger
on a photo
holding the girl’s hand
glad that the camera
saved her eyes
when time
did not spin
and take everything.

These are the eyes of a girl
who is outside
smiling in the wind.