Photograph

“Why won’t it stay on the wall?”

There were holes along the creases. The photographic paper showed stark in places, corners folded in bashful sympathy.

But still. Those once dark eyes, bleached sepia by the sun’s persistence, stared out, unflinching.

As she held it against the wall, an idea pressed itself against the backs of her eyes; its colours becoming sharp and focused.

With each step towards the empty frame, the glass rattled in its casement.

As she tried again, she saw her blood batiking the ancient folds at the corners of those eyes.

The frame fell off the wall.