In the photograph my hand is smaller

In the photograph my hand is smaller,

or maybe just younger,

holding green.

I hated green that summer.

Now I'm looking at my hand on a screen,

my current hand looking at my past hand,

both of them frozen.

Neither one moves.

The cup is so specific—

the exact green of something I can't name—

and I realize I don't have the memory.

Just the evidence.

Just the photograph saying:

you were here, you held this,

your fingers wrapped around it like you belonged to it.

But I don't remember the drink.

Don't remember the taste.

Don't remember if I was happy or pretending.

My past hand holds the answer

and won't tell.

My current hand keeps staring.