Rob S. Friedman
December 2024
That Picture
That picture of you two, two generations reaching for each other. Two baldies, your hair coming in, his gone. Two sets of stubby fingers, our lot, my dear boy.
You weren’t a year in that picture; he was over sixty. I’m older than he was then, balding quickly, with one hand still reaching for each of you.
Rob S. Friedman 