She Didn't Mention It

It was new.

I know my mother's fridge—

the dentist card from March,

the pizza coupon, the note

to herself about the pharmacy.

And then this: a photo of me

at maybe seven, squinting

into sun I don't remember.

Tape yellowing at one corner,

lifting slightly.

She didn't mention it.

I didn't ask.

We had lunch. We talked about

her neighbor's dog, the price

of something at the hardware store.

I looked at it once more

from the doorway when I left—

the kid squinting into light,

the coupon beside it,

the note in her handwriting.

Placed like it had always been there.

I've been trying to decide

what she meant by putting it up.

Whether she meant anything.

Whether that's the wrong question.