The adolescent darkroom print has yellowed,
gradually, like my grandparents’
nicotine ceiling. She is
sketching an echo of
an echo of what
I remember it

felt like to be young, me from a photograph,
monochrome; she leaves
the corresponding edges
white, where I
have faded.

She is sketching my old haircut and my old
young eyes, my shirt, my suit jacket
that was so new, then.
My untried skin.

She touches my face, and I watch her
smudge the charcoal into
the shadows, feel

the lines with her darkened fingers:
etched tree rings, traced,

a promise.