There are trees in the background. I don't know the names of trees, so let's call them by the names of 19th-century baseball players. Joseph Tinker casts an elongated shadow. Harry Addilton is huge, round at the base; I doubt
I could wrap my arms around him. Acorns scattered in grass at his feet, all of them completely eaten. Hmm, I can't recall more names of famous 19th-century baseball players, so let the rest of the stand of trees
be named for ancestors; there's green Meshack Jessup who ferried recruits through the mountains to Union lines. That one with the bark stripped around the trunk is Dollie Shelton Dalton. I only know her
name and when she died. Also, the names of her children, how they earned a living--and their offspring--some I've seen photos of...so I take that back. I know more than her name and when she died. But, if only name, date,
that's something, more than most. In the foreground of the photo with trees named for baseball players and ancestors is a large man in a green shirt. His expression is half-smile, lips pursed, as if miming
a kiss, or sucking his teeth. His eyes smile more than his mouth. Sits in a dinner chair, head cocked, a child on each knee. The man in the green shirt is imagining you. I don't know his name or when he died.