Spadina streetcar, tucked into a back seat.

Caucasian woman, early 50s, with short blonde hair and frameless half-glasses, wearing a long overcoat with leather gloves folded in her lap.

The Lost Garden, Helen Humphreys (HarperFlamingoCanada)

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The fire crackles in the grate like gunshot. I take my hand from Raley's forehead. I don't know what to say to him. While I was intent on finding the map of the estate, pawing through the shelves, he was reading to me. He was *reading* to me. And what can I say about poetry? He's right in what he feels. I have often thought that poetry is a way to name loss, but it cannot accompany one on the journey of loss.

Her hair is dark brown now, shorter, straighter. In the picture I have it's blonde, piggytailed. She stands straight, hands crossed dutifully behind her back, up against the fence. Her head is tilted slightly, her one eye squinting. Her crinkled tube top is white with pink flowers, her cut off jean shorts riding low on her skinny hips. Seven. At seven, she was writing her own stories, short reflections on forbidden love, always ending in death. Her hair is dark brown now, shorter, straighter. The book jacket flatters her. She's grown into her features. Her smile is still strained but the creases about her eyes let me know she's loved and laughed. I turn to the acknowledgements and shudder.

Mother.