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A photograph album seems always a maddening affair of irregular prints and messy clippings. If well concealed or kept spotless as the coffee table, ages quietly double in them; they yellow. The material to which the images adhere is not immune to simple deterioration. Nor does it seem to care. The colors fade. The corners dogear—leaving dates a mere remembrance of the succession of local finishes. Progressions of faces move in and out, or appear in untenable sequence. And by doing so make some members original like dishes. Yet smile as I do, I find the volume thin, meager in terms of time spent—the money.

But there is one in particular:   on the back porch with me by my Kenmore. I have my arms around Frank and he's got that smile on I married him for. It was a holiday. A summer holiday, or maybe my thirtieth birthday—I can't remember. But my mother must have been there since she was a willing photographer. The boys were too young.

It was nice then. My body still fit well around me.