You may be beautiful and shy to the camera’s eye,
unwilling to freeze for immortality,
yet, it can be yours.
Stare, my youth, knowingly into the lens,
revealing secrets to its confidence:
The painfully shaped brows informing your raspberry pout;
The distraction that passed on the right;
The dreams you’ve squished like wet curls on your mind;
The feelings cresting against the bubble-wrap of your chest.
Holly, Mary, Quisby and the crew will fondle these dated images,
totally unaware of the lasting pact with the bright, white light.
“My, my, Grammie! You were so pretty,” they say.
But you won’t correct the tense, for you roll with the wrinkles of time,
and in that aging you grasp back at those prime-time shots
to keep the clock from falling, with memory, into lapse.
And in the wake of life’s glory days,
your friends shall be received to honour —
with glasses of light and dark shaded brew —
the best of your youthful stage,
the gracious, beauty of you.
They won’t recall the gaps in memory,
faces that faded into the stillness prematurely,
nor hands that held little without a thunderous crash,
to the feet of the wobbly figure, cast from gravity’s centre.
For them, your vigorous tirades will never be silenced,
for two little hands brought to them a big heart —
a little machine that, till the last, kept right on loving:
carrying the cherished through the valley,
then ‘oer the peak,
until, graciously, a powerful light decreed:
Adored in conclusion as at conception,
let your little light shine now,
for all will look back to the resonance,
captured in one moment’s snap.
A memory wherewith time shall ever be still,
in honour of a youngling.