The old man shakes the picture frame on the wall. The frame stayed up watching TV all night. The old man walks to the park. He places the frame in a stroller. They walk by the tree where the frame broke her arm. At lunch, he airplanes a spoonful of peas to the frame. He wipes spit-up from her chin with Windex and a bib. The fabric has tears. It’s the one they gave him at the hospital where the frame was born. Seven pounds, eleven inches. At night, the old man draws a bath for the frame. He elbows the water. Just right. The frame floats in circles next to her yellow ducky. The frame hates it when the old man cleans behind her ears. The old man hangs the frame back on the wall. He kisses her on the forehead. He huffs on the glass and wipes the lip mark with his shirt corner. He leaves the light on. He knows the frame is afraid of the dark. He checks his phone. “Unread.” He looks at the frame. He smiles. He remembers to pull down chicken from the freezer. The picture frame’s cross-country team is coming over tomorrow. They love his chicken parm.
Jose Oseguera (he/him) is a writer of poetry, short fiction and literary nonfiction. His writing has been featured or is forthcoming in Water Stone, Pinch and Sonora Review. He is the author of the poetry collections The Milk of Your Blood (Kelsay Books, 2021) and And This House Is Only a Nest (Homebound Publications, 2024).
