Holding color slides up to the window
one at a time,
a morning looking over images my father shot
throughout his life
now saved in dusty carousels.
My mother, slim,
cigarette between her fingers
on a chaise longue in Miami,
my grandfather,
gin and tonic in hand,
gray black hair,
the shamed face of a man
who had lost his job,
dentists at conventions
wearing name tags
and wide ties,
The Vallieres in the Bahamas
beside an aqua blue pool,
The duckling we had one summer,
my sister young and toothless in a handsewn dress.
Behind the slide, a plane flies
miles above,
a speck of metal holding hundreds of people
drinking 7-Up from plastic cups,
staring down from their windows,
a trail of white smoke passing
through my Kodachrome past.
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