A faded picture of our father and

you with whom I no longer speak, taken before I was born, before we fell out, before he grew sick. Weeks ago, my neighbor and his wife fought in their front yard. You don't love me anymore. You haven't loved me in years. What could he say? The photo, fifty years old—how did it come to be mine, our father in his green shirt, and faintly, the face you will grow into. What am I to do with it? I run my finger along the breakfast plate, touch the breadcrumbs to my tongue. The small seeds give between my teeth: fennel, flax, sunflower, sesame.