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Three-inch glass rods were placed vertically inside the cheeks to encourage a smile; but she was squinting.
Shaded lenses were added to the pupils to eliminate this distracting feature. But the background did not provide enough...highlight; no - contrast.
So the foreground was placed against an arc of roses. They were very thorny. A low whimper began to intermittently sneak from the throat, indicating that the situation called for novocaine.
"Mommy, I want to go play in the neighbor's sprinkler." The husband backed his pickup into the setting.
Clamps normally used for household repair were slipped gently but quickly onto the neck and ankles and the glass rods were readjusted as they threatened to block the windpipe which might cause slight discoloration of the skin, steering all this hard work to nought.
Then again, thought the person behind the camera, makeup could always fix that.
There were flashes, there were eight by ten frontals and wallet profiles radiant with pain mollified into glee. A tiny mirrored chip was imbedded in the bicuspid, creating a sparkle outshining that of Bethlehem.
But dammit, the wind kept mussing the hair, calling for the application of a spray adhesive.
These images, capping those of the preceding generations, would put the family on Page One of the Centennial issue of Who's Who In Happiness.
She grew into a moderately disturbed misfit and would spend the rest of her life practicing Tai Chi on a faraway Orient island to fend off madness, so Mommy could spend her final years in restful contemplation,
flipping through a vivacious catalog of memories that were more real than the screaming and tears that some filthy liar said were the true foundations of her past.