“That’s me at seventeen.”
My granddaughter found me crying.
She studied it. “You had beautiful eyes.”
I wiped my cheek with my sleeve.
“That’s what Walter always said.”
She squeezed my shoulder.
“You had beautiful eyes.”
For once, I didn’t turn the picture over.
***
A week later, I called Arthur.
“Did you ever wonder what happened to me after that appointment?”
“Not until years later,” he admitted.
I didn’t turn the picture over.
“I spent decades trying to fix something that wasn’t wrong.”
“I’m sorry, Holly.”
“I believe you. But I don’t know whether I can trust you again.”
“I understand.”
“I believe you.”
We agreed to leave things there for now.
That evening, I placed the salon photograph beside one my granddaughter had taken recently.
In the newer picture, I was laughing.
My mustache was plainly visible.
We agreed to leave things there for now.
I looked from one face to the other.
