March 21

Easter ‘57

by Leslie Bustard

Easter ‘57

is scribbled on the back 

of a torn black and white—

her Sunday dress blown by 

a breeze, his face caught  

between a squint and a stare. 

My mom was ten then. 

In a few years the farm

they labored hard for would

fail, the cows would be sold 

and a house in town bought.

Her mother would fall sick

and her dad grow weary. 

Thirty years later, we 

headed down south to find 

their gravestone, like their farm,

well-tended and tidy. 

The house in town was lost 

to wild weeds and decay. 

Mom once told me she saw

her dad in my brother—

both dark-haired and lanky. 

And me—I don’t have much 

else but a few stories 

and my love for a black 

and white of two people 

standing straight and tall on 

a sunny, windy day 

of Easter ’57.

Read more from Leslie Bustard here.