Daniel turned the frame over to read the faded ink inscription on the back, written in my mother’s tight, elegant cursive.
His hand stopped, his fingers locking around the silver edge of the frame.
The silver watch on his wrist clicked against the wood of the table as his hand began to shake, his fingers turning pale under the fingernails.
“Martha,” he whispered.
“What is it, Daniel?” I asked, setting the kettle down on the cold burner.
He did not look at me, his eyes locked on the old handwriting on the cardboard backing of the frame.
“Whose writing is this?” he asked, his voice tighter than before.
“My mother wrote that the day they bought the farm,” I said, taking a step closer to the table. “She always signed the back of every picture.”
Daniel stared at the photo with a pale, frozen expression as the kitchen clock ticked.
Daniel did not look up when the refrigerator gave its familiar, low shudder, the sound vibrating through the floorboards of the kitchen. He remained perfectly still, his eyes fixed on the photograph of my late parents that sat on the table between us. His left hand lay flat on the yellow Formica, his fingers hovering over his silver watch, rotating the metal band with a tiny, metallic click every few seconds.
