I never knew her, of course.
Nor did my mother.
And her mother barely knew her.

I only know she was beautiful.
Even the shopkeeper who framed her photo said so,
his gaze locking on hers for seconds in silence.

She lived in that photo,
staring back from her black and white past,
ruffled lace indifferent to us while embracing her neck,
hair – color unknown – up and pinned back.

And the eyes … seeing me and a few generations past me
(or so I believe).

No smile, no need.

And she died.

It’s how it was back then;
you lived, you married, bore life, and died.

Her only trace was that photo.

’Til the rains came in Wheeling, West Virginia.
The sewers failed.
Water rose in our home.
And the box that bore her celluloid bones ….

She died again.

Her only trace now is the negative in my mind,
which I can never reprint.