The photo was her favorite
She’d run her fingers over it
until the print became worn, creased
wrinkled with mountains, valleys
yet it never failed to comfort her.

It wasn’t an exceptional picture
in fact, it was a bit blurred
as if the photographer’s hands
had been shaking ever so slightly
as he captured that pin prick of time
But she loved it nonetheless.

Even now
years later
she sometimes pulls it out
extracting it from her cluttered desk drawers
gently freeing it from it’s cloak of dust
and studies the two faces
eyes running over every freckle
as if she were seeing for the first time