The Photograph


The Photograph

A patina of Gold washed them from the captured sun filtered by carefully landscaped trees these bathing beauties that have been since Greece was in the age of Gold and here they were again alive in bodies I would never experience as my own. Oh how a dreamed of being one such as these…but even youth, while unappreciated, still could not allow me to compare with such goddesses on earth…I was born alone…struggling to stay inside my mother’s womb as the horrible realization of what I had chosen washed over me but it was too late and cold tongs squeezed my head to hard and yanked me out….I watch the picture sometimes and fancy I am one of them…..for a moment…..golden sure and striding with the step of only those that know their worth….Now days are full of rocking loneliness as steady as the drip from icicles hanging off the roof and as cold. Was there ever a day this odd apartness was not such a specter in the scheme of reality that I could overcome the thousands of days I would have to live without Gold.

coryright Mary S, Ahmed

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