She Loves You, Yeah, Yeah, Yeah Rochelle Nameroff This is a joke, a scream, this orderly picture of life. So I look at LIFE. I open to a teenager in a photo who weeps over a handful of sod, says the mag, trod on by Ringo. This is a joke, a genuine relic, a memory for her mouth to hold wide open, for the tears to fall on her cheeks like the pearls on thrift-store sweaters. It's a cheap memory I know, bought by everyone and discounted. Thought of as easy. You must remember this, etcetera. And yet I look at her hand held over a few threads of grass, a little hand to make the photo more precious, somehow silly with those big clumps of sticks peeking through the tiny fist of fingers. And I believe in those fingers, in the few threads of grass and the holding on. I believe in the one continuous tear. And even if I mistake the past I believe in the love.

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