always looking back

my mother

was a shutterbug

with her small kodak camera.

when she finally expired

after five

years of a long illness

she left behind

volumes

of photographs, some

in albums,

some in boxes.

some dated with names

on the back.

the edges of many crimped

with her sewing scissors.

it warmed her to save

the world

she loved,

with family and home

in tact. they were stacked

beneath the coffee table,

in closets,

in the attic.

a record of time moving

swiftly.

she saved as many yesterdays

she could.

always

ignoring the future,

always looking back.