My sisters and I sit upright on a long bench in front of
an old cabin wall. Our hands are on our knees; our
chins, turned up; our faces, mock serious, and my
youngest sister’s expression is starting to break
as Mom focuses and refocuses the camera.
This image is all pixels. It exists as ones and zeroes.
I don’t have a copy to hold in my hands, to
smudge with my thumbs or stick on the wall.
It’s private, as are the pictures of my old
girlfriend, buried in an unlabled folder on my hard drive.
Although my sisters and I are scattered,
living in three different states, we once
came together for this picture, to play before
the lens, and mock the rigid black and white
family portraits found on the walls of old houses.