Arms about the waist so as to divest any photograph of the frame and to self-contain like an amniotic painting. The body is a vowel sound voicing time-fears. It bows softly as the sun makes through a cloud.
Dad walks in with strong hands from planting Ash trees in the garden, he calls over to say they are dying out in Norfolk.
Later he joins the photograph and pats the head affectionately, flapping its petals like older men waving as they go, only leaving the photograph when they are remembered in a different way.