my mother’s left arm
is longer than her right
there is an extra crease
on the inside of her elbow
about half an inch
from the usual one
that she used to say
the elders used to say
was the site of attachment
of a fully formed limb
to an endless arm
in a previous life

i listened to her tales
and afterward contorted
my body searching
all my joints for a similar
sign of connection

when i was a child
they always spoke of you

as being younger
than C- and older than O-

so i imagined you as older
because they were older

and as they aged
in my mind, so did you

graduating from your teens
into your twenties and beyond

so it wasn’t until last year’s talks
with mom, that it finally sunk in

that at thirty three, i was already
three times as old as you were

when they lost you, years before
you had a chance to become a teen

i found your photograph today
in black and white and browned
with old age, but secure in the
fire-safe box, tucked between
photocopies of old passports, under
mom’s gold-foiled jewelry boxes

i immediately turned it over
and read your birthdate
and name and your age
at the time the photo was taken
all written in dad’s neat script

and then turned it back to you
three months and seven days old
uncomfortably propped up
in a round plastic wicker chair

your feet pointed at the camera
both legs bent, but only the right
one raised, the sole pale, almost
as white as your sleeveless top
fastened by knotted shoulder straps

your hands are hidden, but your face
is unobstructed, save for the crease
running down the slight gap between
right eye and nose and along the corner
of your closed, unhappy mouth

and the almost-black irises of your eyes
are shifted right, never meeting my gaze

sometimes it is
the people who
have known you
the longest and
think they know
you the best
that cause you
to doubt yourself

but no one
can ever
know you
longer or better
than yourself