Blue Cup

Dust motes in the afternoon light,

swimming through the sunbeam

that hit the old shoebox, brown and flat.

Inside, the stack of glossed-over squares.

One, curled at the edge, yellowed white,

me, maybe six, eyes wide.

Holding a chipped blue cup, plastic,

the exact shade of a faded sky.

I don't remember that cup.

Not the weight, not the feel of the chip

against my lip. But the photo holds it,

my small hand wrapped around its side.

My memory, a sudden flicker, then it's gone,

leaving only the picture's fixed smile.