Memories Produced in a Photograph

I looked at the picture, framed.

And wondered what happened

To the sister that used to sit in there.

I stared at the emptiness and blamed

Myself for what I failed to apprehend.

I just sat with a cold glare.

I watched the picture move

And change to a maddening scene

That haunted me forever.

Over the surface, flat and smooth,

I watched the knife, ragged and mean

Ending her life altogether.

I sat and cried at the picture, framed

And wished it had never happened.

I just sat with a melancholy stare,

Unable to move

Out of the gleam.

I watched her throat, slitted by our mother.

Why do sisters have to die?

Author's Note

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