This isn’t my mother’s hand.
“Of course it is. It’s labeled. See.”
Aunt Alison saw life through a lens and confirmed it was real through the labels she affixed to each photograph and each box-full of photographs.
“Honey, it’s labeled,” Aunt Alison insisted. “What would you know?” A declarative sentence with a question mark hanging off the end, just for fun. “You were just a baby!” She smacked her knees with her palms and smiled sweetly.
A baby, whose whole world extended to the end of her mother’s fingertips. I smiled. Alison was rifling through a new old box.