July 2017 //
Last night while I was cooking dinner, dad texted me a photo of you holding a fish at the waters edge. The first fish, caught and pulled out of the river by your own arm. My heart jumped and sank with the poor trout at the thought of missing this moment: you with your small hands grasping the wriggly fella, wide smile, the electric in your eyes.
A few weeks back my own mother called me, gentle tears pressing into the phone. She was proud of me. She had just discovered something new about my wanderings. “When you were a baby,” she said, “I knew everything about you, who and where and what. I was involved in everything. And now, my child is grown and halfway through her own life. How is it that there is still more to know that I haven’t yet discovered? How is it that I can never know you fully again? I want to celebrate every inch of your life. I never stop wanting to hold your hand.”
Later, when dinner is done, you storm through the door and almost knock me over with your hug. You got a fish. It was amazing. Can I go back with you tomorrow? Yes, daughter, I’ll go with you forever.
