There’s that picture that sits on your oak dresser.
The one you look at every time you fall asleep.
He holds the hand of a young girl,
helping her balance as she takes her first step.
But, who is that girl?

My Grandma tells me I look like him.
White-blonde hair that sticks up
because it’s too light to fall to the head.
His plaid shirt tucked in,
and black suspenders cross over his back,
the back that carried 12 grandchildren
until he taught them to walk
over the cement sidewalk stained with pink and blue chalk.

Their backs turned toward us,
that’s the mystery.
The leaves from the tree canopy above them.
A pink onesie hugs her hips,
as white lace socks pop out of her Velcro shoes.

Everyone asks, “Which granddaughter is that?”
I know it’s me.
The stick straight, white-blonde hair,
and blue eyes tinted with grey, shadow his.