A sight: a strip of light, amongst other things
It falls upon an old broken clock
and glass frame

Torn and frayed edges line the photo encased in the smudged  glass
Curios fingertips wipe away the years of dust  
Three solemn faces stare in return

A man
A woman
A child
Dressed in black pants and plain shirts
The woman in a faded and worn dress

they sit together, at least within feet of each other
But no sense of affection radiates, only a cold chill 
The fingertips tremble, the frame slips like a bar of soap
Hitting the attic floor, the glass shield shatters, scattering pieces of broken light around bent knees
Kneeling down, a hand reaches for a small piece of paper on the back of the stale photograph

It's folded and yellowing
Sensitive to the touch, quivering as its creases are opened

Prying eyes widen and wash over the paper's surface

Again, trembling fingertips let slip the fragment of paper
It flutters to the floor, sprinkled with glass shards, with a soft crinkle

Disbelief shadows the readers eyes, and her fingertips brush against her cheek then to her lips

Even as the light cast from the sun leaves the attic in a bath of gold, a cold dark feeling fills the room 
The old clock refuses to tick even as the moments go by in a hush 
The old hands are bent and the numbers are faded
Much like the photograph
 
Worn and forgotten, the wooden clock rots and the note gathers dust  
Much like the man, woman and the child; dressed for a vapid occasion 
With serious dispositions, and a dark 
dark 
past

A history, concealed in the back of a battered, glass frame and left alone for too many summers