Several weeks ago I discovered a photograph of my mother
sitting in the sun, her face flushed as with achievement or triumph.
The sun was shining. The dogs
were sleeping at her feet where time was also sleeping,
calm and unmoving as in all photographs.
I wiped the dust from my mother’s face.
Indeed dust covered everything; it seemed to me the persistent
haze of nostalgia that protects all relics of childhood.
. . . .
from A Summer Garden , Louise Gluck