There are no photos of me as an infant

In my mother’s arms. No black and white

Sepia toned memories bleeding

Into my now. No corners holding

The past in its place, jagged edges

Saying, look here, this was your life.

This was you as a baby in your mother’s arms

See how she looks at you

With tenderness, look at the calmness

On your face. The only pictures I have

Are the images you have left behind

The hurt I have learnt to carry

And the bitterness of the years.