There’s my daughter among the flowers.
She’s in the arms of her fiancé,
the first one, whom she changed her mind about
and never married, looking happy.
I think it was her graduation day.
We liked him. We like her new love too.
And here’s my son in his room with his guitar,
which was stolen on the night before a show.
He’s studying the frets, ear turned to a sound
outside the frame, working out the chords.
It was a cheap guitar, but he was fond of it.
He thought he might become an entertainer.
He never did replace it.
He found his calling writing code,
and we are happy for him.
So what is this flood of feeling that washes over me
As I turn past these images that seemed for a time to define a life
But now tell only the story of the moment just before the shutter closed,
The one about the tale that wasn’t told
In the echo of this pleasant house or garden
Where Kate and I have lived these twenty years?
