The photographs I have taken of you,
one shutter at a time, are scattered now

from one house to another. I meant to
put them all in books and write down how

old you were when we went toYellowstone
and the names you had for the little bear

we bought when you were scared to be alone.
I’m worried that no one will recognize where

you were standing in this one; they won’t see
the yard of our first house or recognize

your father’s father as he is pushing
his reading glasses up to watch your face

as you open the present they have brought —
that look of happiness the camera caught.