My Mother’s Studio Photo, 1916, Age One

by Joan Leotta

 
She was a tiny little thing.
Pretty. Very pretty. Head full
long curls, red, although color
does not show in the sepia photo.
One hand holds a toy
or flower—hard to tell which—
a device often
used by photographers of
that era to distract children,
help them keep still.
However, it’s the chair
I notice today—wooden
flat seat, rounded back.
She stands on it, her
hazel eyes looking
not at the camera, but
seeking perhaps the solace
of her teen-aged mother
who likely is standing
to the side of this scene.
My Mother’s small black boots
support her tiny ankles as chair
raises her up before the camera
so the photographer’s camera
can grasp the whole of her.
If only I could have asked her
to stand on a chair so I could have seen
and known the whole of her,
for when I look at her photo
hanging in my office,
I am struck now by
how little I really knew her.

* * * * *

Joan Leotta plays with words on page and stage. She writes and performs tales of food, family, strong women. Internationally published as an essayist, poet, short story writer, and novelist, she’s a two-time Pushcart and Best of the Net nominee and was a 2022 runner-up in Robert Frost Competition. Her two chapbooks are Languid Lusciousness with Lemon and Feathers on Stone.