A friend showed meanother photographer's work;
he'd found a way to shoot in color
over a hundred years ago.
We gazed together at the images
and marveled, surprised
at how real his subjects looked.
Sometimes even my own past
looks black and white to me,
distant, yellowed, faded;
and then I wonder:
are those memories real?
Or are the experiences I remember
-- the three of us in that plastic inflatable pool,
or dancing on the porch --
are they just memories of mother's photos;
not real at all?
* * *
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