I want to take your photo, but you resist. So instead I sit on the rocky beach, close my eyes and lean into the warm arm of the sun. I am thinking about how many times we’ve been here. I wonder how old you were the first moment you dipped your toes into the river silt and sand? When we are here, we’re at home. The mountains watch us our whole lives through.
I remember packing you on my back and tossing rocks against the current. Maybe you were three or four months old. And before that, when I was first pregnant with you, I remember walking this beach. I’m sure I day dreamed of you. And here I am, 11 years later, still dreaming of you.
When I open my eyes you’ve thrown off your shirt and are parading the treasures you have scavenged. You are grinning at me, and I know that means that you have welcomed me to lift my lens and remember you, in this moment, boldly flying your flag.