A Faded Photograph

I kept the faded photograph of when she was about five.

Picture it. Above, a clear, blue-grey sky with on the left, two very white clouds with round ears, just like her imaginary albino mouse friend, on the right, a five-foot-high orange tent with a long fold across from the top down to its anchor into the heat-cracked brown soil, behind, a golden yellow carpet of thirsty summer Bekaa grass, on the left, hugging the horizon, two small rocky hills, three bushes, and two long and thin wooden sticks.

And then her.

Her. Standing in the center like a pin-up movie star, spontaneously posing for an impromptu photoshoot, her short silky brown hair lightly carried by an undulating faint valley breeze, her white t-shirt covering a proudly protruding childhood belly, her dusty blue jacket and pants jeans ensemble, her right leg in front, slightly bent, and ready to run, and her left leg behind, straight, and firmly planted in the ground.

She posed, holding a yellow plastic glass of water above her upper lip and her nose, drinking, looking at the camera from the corner of her eye, almost seeing through, while the mid-day sun scattered itself on her hair and face and onto the wide golden plains around.

She wanted the faded picture back but I kept it.

Did she know that I would be the last one to touch her face with these moist fingers and keep her on my desk with the rest my things?