A pair of Yellow Gloves
Too big to fill
A pair of Red Wings
Too strong to wear down
359/365 // we’re goin’ on a bear hunt
359/365 // we’re gonna catch a big one
With those big hands, it is said he built our home into the hillside,
I was too young to understand.
He has the hands of his father, I have the hands of my grandmother,
But our blood runs the same, though it won’t flow in my fingers any longer.
359/365 // trails i took as a kid
359/365 // roaring or frozen, i love you all the same
So he’ll slide one Yellow Glove from his marked and gnarled hand and pass it to me.
”Which one needs it?” The left. The right needs to advance the shutter. I can’t miss a moment.
Run ahead, crouch in the prairie grass, let the light slip lower, count the steps, take the shot.
I’ve taken these photographs one billion times but I need one billion more.
359/365 // leading
359/365 // we follow
I was too young to understand when they moved our home and forged it among a snakes den.
We ran through the tree rows, got muddy in the culverts, shot fireworks past the clothesline.
Helped with Yellow Gloves to clear dead trees, and planted new ones.
Followed Red Wings as they lead us in and out of pastures. “We’ve got nothin’ but time.”
359/365 // remember when
359/365 // remember when
We’re going on a hike. And so we’ll play Remember When?
”The time Gypsy found two boys by the old trees where the Cannonball curves, starting a new civilization in a blizzard.”
”The time the Eldest crossed the river and fell in.”
”The time we lost the Second Uncle and the fire brigade rescued him.”
And I wonder if this too will be a Remember When on next year’s hike.
But alas, we make it to our destination, minus one pair of sunglasses.
359/365 // pretty little dead things, part two
359/365 // look up
And so we close another year with another hike and few more photographs of the people I’ve always known weaving their way across a frozen prairie. Amidst the golden hour, with the sound of the prairie grass, I can’t help but notice we’re a few members short.
359/365 // few things are greater than a view like this
My chest squeezes because I want it to always exist.
The way they forged this family, this tradition, I need it to stay.
I need it to always live on.
I need every photograph, every cocklebur, every stick of the western wheatgrass.
And like every other year, I can’t quite catch my breath —
And I wonder how I could have ever left, heaven on earth, because I’ve always only ever followed
A pair of Yellow Gloves
Too big to fill
A pair of Red Wings
Too strong to wear down
”Come along, shadow.”