The glass had come loose at the upper corner, so I lifted the frame from its nail. A clean rectangle stayed on the wall, pale as old dust.
Three people stood beside a car. The smiles were the kind you hold for a count of three. My father’s jacket was buttoned one hole off. I did not study their faces long.
I laid the photograph face down on the kitchen table. The hanging wire still held the kink of the nail. When I pressed it flat, the cut end pricked my thumb.
Brown masking tape had dried into small scales along the cardboard back. The cardboard itself bowed from a long season of damp, and one of the little black brads swung loose on a speck of rust. The working side had been handled more often than the front.
A date in pencil read June 1968. Someone had gone over the eight twice, the second pass heavier, as if the year needed settling. The graphite left a shallow groove in the fiberboard. Underneath, a name had been crossed out with a single hard line and written again in blue ballpoint. The correction was tidy but pressed deep. I knew the name. I could not place the handwriting.
A price sticker still clung to the backing. 79¢. One corner had curled up where a thumbnail had started and stopped. The adhesive had turned to a hard, clear crust. The rest held.
I left the frame facedown on the table. The wire had left a small dent in my thumb. By morning it would be gone.
The name on the back is not the name we used.