The Picture

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I know the picture that you’re holding well. It’s a picture of me.
It’s the old one, with the well thumbed edges, the crisscrossing of faded fingerprints lay across the surface. There are water marks across it, melted snow that has created puddles of grey or green dotted across the polaroid.
There is a lining of trees, spruce and fir, clumped together thickly. Large, black voids of space between them. They’re doubled in the reflection of the lake, reaching across the inked water like tendrils that are grasping for the equally dark sky, deeply rooted in swollen marshland.
(The photo was taken the week after I died.)
My sister was pushed out first and her face sparked recollection in newspapers and television crews and as you carried her home: crying, wailing, sobbing and cold:
You forgot all about me.
I’m in the forest in the photo, swallowed up. It’s difficult to say where precisely, but behind the first layer of trees, somewhere at the top or somewhere at the bottom, if you look long and hard enough, eventually, you will be able to see me.
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