I'd never seen this photo before: my grandmother in a folding chair, holding my mother and aunt on a sunny day in the 1960s. The image is slightly faded, tinted with that particular green cast of old photographs, but the moment it captures feels immediate.

My grandmother passed away last week, and as my family sorts through photographs and memories, I've been thinking a lot about what we keep, what gets lost, and how our imaginations work to fill the spaces in between. Sometimes I think that's what poetry is - an attempt to capture not just what happened, but what it felt like to be there, how it shaped us, how it lives in us still.