From her perch on the dusty mantel of what was my parents’ house, she meets my gaze with an expression of curiosity. Her face is round and full. Her legs — already long for her age — are stacked rolls of baby fat. Her eyes are large and clear. The cream and sepia tones of the photograph mask their color, but I know those eyes. They are pale green, the color of a peridot.

She is standing, leaning against the back cushions of a dark brocade sofa. There is another photo memorializing the moment in which her grandmother is hovering at the edge of the frame, alert to the inevitable moment when her first granddaughter’s still soft and cartilaginous kneecaps will fold and send her tumbling.

The photo is secured onto a metal base, which also displays a pair of bronzed baby shoes – my baby shoes

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