Two blonde braids
thin and bent
frame that small, serious face
tiny pink elastics holding them together.

There are bees swarming splintered wood,
wind messy-ing wispy hair
I am small and trusting and safe with my legs swinging
in the empty space beneath me,
half-smiling for my mother who crouches in front of my swing
and beams behind her camera, laughing at my furrowed brow.

She says,
You always knew what I was talking about,
even when you were a baby.
I used to tell you everything.
But you got older, darker,
blonde hair turned brown bleached blonde again;
I miss those curious eyes.

Clara Carl is a College first-year and English major with a strong interest in creative writing. Her 2020 poem “Photo from 2006” is a short reflection on growing up. It highlights that the transition into adulthood is gradual, but the realization that you have changed can be very sudden.