by Sparks In Shadow
We were sporting new clothes before church. My little brother’s hat, a fedora like Dad’s, was molded straw with dark ribbon at the base of its crown, making him seem like a doll version of a man. He smiled out past the new coat, suit jacket, bow tie, gazing off to the side as the shutter snapped.
I was seven, mirroring Mrs. Kennedy or my mother, beneath lacy white straw circled in pink, clutching the matching handbag with both hands.
We were living dolls caught in time that Easter, preserved for memory’s sake, before our edges had begun to fray.