Snapshot

There are four of them in the photograph—
my father and mother and another young couple,
whose names I do not know.
It could be 1934 and the weather is warm,
for the women wear sleeveless summer dresses
and the men have taken off their jackets
but not their ties.
The women have bobbed hair and strings of beads,
the men, short-back-and-sides haircuts,
and they are all laughing.
It looks as though they have been playing cards,
since a flimsy folding table is
now covered with a cloth, teacups
and what remains of supper.

When I revisit this photo I’m struck
by the furnishings shown—“Genoa velvet” armchairs,
a smoker’s stand and a wireless set,
that ziggurat of shining bakelite, a glimpse
of a sideboard and what seems like
the edge of a traymobile.
What always puzzled me was why
the standard lamp in the background
displays a naked bulb, and now
I have just realised why they are laughing.
What I had thought an odd-shaped thing on the wall
is in fact the missing lamp-shade,
elaborate, fringed, and worn like a hat
by my mother.

This captured moment of silliness
affirms what takes so long to apprehend:
our parents once were young.