My Santiago

The dead never leave… (Written at my desk in my study, entranced by the picture of my mother, ready for Tennis, aged 20 years in 1938)

The faded sepia photograph oddly Brings the woman to life; Beautifully sculptured arms raised above her head, Legs, right over left, Graceful, demure, Finished by shoes, white open toed, block heeled.

In white, She reflects subtle hues Of a granddaughter in shoulder length hair tucked behind ears, A daughter in the direct gaze of the eyes; But with hair cut shorter.

The eyes and nose, Are those of my son!

I remember a snapshot; Coincidentally, In the self-same pose. This time decades later, He sits arms upraised, -

Same pose, less scripted -

And the eyes and the nose Belong to the woman, Some 50 years earlier; Grandmother in the face of the grandson! And flitting in and out of the face in sepia -As I bring full focus to it- Are the ghosts of family - in the features! Myself in the forehead and hair, In my youth, My son in the hair and nose, My sister in the eyes! Impossibly elusive, Intangible splashes of my tribe!

She lived and died, But she lives now in the faces I see.