Upper School Poetry
Photograph of an Old Man and a Little Asian Girl
by Linnea Hull ‘16
On a hard wood floor, my feet are cold. My bottom hurts.
Sifting through a box full of Kodak envelopes
filled to the brim with the unforgotten past
my eyes land on one photo
taken in North Carolina when I was six years old.
In the center of the photo on a blue and white striped chair,
a little Asian girl smiles on the lap of an old man.
She wears a bright yellow and pink striped dress.
Her bangs cover the top of her forehead.
She has no eyes.
It is seven past ten according the small brass clock,
ancient and worn. It sits silently by the old man’s right hand.
A black pole of a lamp stands behind the clock and
in front of a corner of a white sheeted bed and pillow
where every night he sleeps silently, growing older every minute.
The old man, my Granddaddy, sits on the chair,
clad in blue jeans and a plaid blue and green shirt.
His limbs ache, his brain is fuzzed, his hair is grayed, and his joints
creak in a body that is not getting younger.
He is aged by the wars, engineering, a family of a wife
and two sons, death, a dog, a cat,
a house on a lake built by hand, fish trespassers, drowning,
two marriages, empty nesters, and an
On Death’s doorstep he smiles for his little black eyed beauty
perched on his lap.
He was the third to leave town and never come back.
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