She held a picture in her hand. Not one with a glossy shell, or pretty white frame. Not one of those ones that’s really expensive, that only old ladies with lilac dresses and the presidents have. This is a picture with coffee stains, and a piece torn off the top right. The picture that fell off the desk and under the bed besides a dusty shoebox. A picture with two bodies facing each other, their hands interlocked. It’s beautiful, even with the stains and the tear. It’s hard to explain, but if you think of that perfect song you hear when you’re sitting on your porch on Sunday morning when you just got back from church, or the feeling you get what you receive exactly what you wanted for Christmas or when you can shut your eyes and feel the sun beat down upon your hair... That’s what the pictures like. It feels like home, in a photograph. Its beauty burns through the picture, even though it’s dirty and old and not in the hands of an old lady in a lilac dress. And that’s okay, because the girl in the converse who works at the coffee shop with the yin yang tattooed on her wrist is holding the picture. She tucks it into her pocket ever so slightly, and it’s her home. It’s her stain, her tear, her story. She’s Okay with it.

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