Every year my mom shook her head, disappointed.
She always sent the pictures back.
So my brother, my sister and I
Remained faceless for years until
The bare piano, bereft of smiling children,
Complained that it needed a new face,
With no baby fat.

We ventured to Sears.
Waiting,
Surrounded by beaming babies, perfect parents,
Framed forever on display,
I imagined what my picture portrait would look like.

The smiley photographer beckoned me in.
I perched on the raised stool, stood up straight,
Tilted
On the expressionless white floor,
Blinked
My eyes to ward away
Those powerful, laughing lights
Under the looming umbrellas.
The lights laughed louder
As the photographer kept snapping portraits.

He handed me silly props
A Santa Claus hat, which I declined, and
Even a rubber duckie.
I wondered how the photographer came up
With these things
Why they even existed.
Am I not enough to complete my own picture?

In the end I settled grudgingly for a fake, pink flower
Which I mostly cropped
Out of the picture.
Somehow, that flower portrait came out the best,
Despite the grimace behind my smile.