Janet’s poem about her father

Such deep set eyes.
Beneath the beret, eyebrows arch as if amused.
Lips, lingering on the edge of a smile, are checked by the regimental brass buttons of his uniform.
He stands at ease, both hands invisible.
As if he holds some secret.
Which hand? I hear him ask.
I look at my own and see his grasping my pen, attempting to write his history.
My hand growing more like his, year after year.
And the photograph, as if sensing that genes are more durable than silver shadows on paper, allows itself to continue its slow, inevitable fade.

Janet Reinhardt Published Quadrant , June 2000