Creased Polaroid

The album smelled of old paper and dust,

a faint sweetness, a kind of trust

in the faded colors.

There it was,

the beach, that summer, all sun and blur.

My sister, squinting, a plastic shovel

held like a sword.

I remembered the warmth of the sand,

the sticky ice cream, the bright blue.

Then, the sharp crease down the middle,

where it had been folded, crammed in a box.

And with it, the memory

of my mother's tight lips,

my father's silence in the car ride back,

the arguments that stung

long after the sunburn faded.

The sun-drenched perfect picture

shivered, then broke apart.