Developed Memory

In the shoebox, curled at the edges,

that old print, faded a bit.

Me, maybe five, in a striped shirt,

holding a balloon, squinting.

My brother, behind me,

making a face. I don't remember it.

Not the party, not the cake,

not the way the sun felt that day.

But the photo makes it real,

a memory I can almost taste,

though it's not mine, not truly.

It's just the image,

filling in the blank space,

making me believe I was there,

when I only see that paper square.