Superglued into a makeshift scrapbook
I found her
in her elegant white dress.
At least I think it was white.
I have only ever seen her
in
    black
             and
                   white.

She holds a canned drink.
My grandfather towers over her
ignoring the camera
to adore his new wife.

Her smile
survived two generations
making its way down to me.

I take my eyes off of her—
something I’ve been told
people could hardly do—
and glance at
My grandpa,
his hair thick,
and slicked back.

He doesn’t know
that she’ll be diagnosed
at 44 with
Melanoma.

And he doesn’t know
that the next time
he will be in a tux
adoring her like that
will be her funeral.

She doesn’t know
that I will have her smile or
that I will pick dandelions
and put them on the marble stone of her grave.

She doesn’t know
That she’ll never meet her grandkids.
That the only thing close
to her homemade cookies
when we visit Grandpa
will be
the Chip’s Ahoy chewies
he puts in the glass jar with a red lid.

But, I wonder if Grandpa—
looking at her white dress and smile like he is—
could ever fathom
that the cookies in the jar
won’t be hers.