Those were Grandpa's odd eyes looking out past my shoulder, sepia-toned and stoic from high on the wall. I gazed back through desuete glass,
then read the hands of the woman, cameo-cut, edged in Valenciennes lace, holding a blur of bobbed hair on her ramrod lap. Quiet, hush -- but the baby would not be stilled any more than my own by bribe or photographer's ploy.
For sixty dollars each I could purchase their histories framed in dark cherry (a fine match for my Queen Anne), have them parceled in newsprint, extending decor and family annals by one more great aunt or cousin much removed.
I'd say, Aunt Sarah's brooch was willed to me. They said it was lost in the move, but I'm suspicious it was 'mislaid'. Or, What a shame Grandpa had such queer eyes; he'd have been quite handsome otherwise.
