Jack of Hearts
02-16-2011, 05:06 AM
Later, I stumbled across the picture. Even when I had taken it I knew it was going to make me sad one day; I knew it because it was bittersweet like all good pictures are and it spoke of summer time and metaphor. You and I were on the trail, me buddying around with my older brother and the damn dog was there, too- some of the other backpackers we passed misheard his name in our attempts to stop him smothering them with his leaping love. They called him ‘Annie’, which is neither phonetically nor genderly correct.
So I saw the shot coming. The trail was on a gentle upwards slope through the underbrush and did I see that shot coming a mile away or what. I ushered you and ‘Annie’ the testicled wonder dog ahead. The path was inclined as such that neither of us could see over the ridge where it led- at least, not practically. The trail was painted a mixture of sunshine and shade on the dirt and through the tree canopy, in the impractical far away, was a rolling hill collected in pine trees, smothered with blue skies.
I saw you and ‘Annie’ standing on that ridge, not knowing where the trail continued further, nor if it split (it did), or if it would be easy hiking. I knew there was that beautiful next ridge, somewhere after the next before it, that surely even in its distance it must be tangible. Surely we’d make it there. These were the last things I saw before I clicked the camera, the things that made me sad in their impermanence, in the fact that they too must pass and that perhaps not both of us, together, could stay walking the same trail, stay chasing the same hill in the distance.
And maybe where the trail split was where you looked outward through your pain to find a sense of value for yourself; and I looked inward through mine, my half of the pain that was mothered to us.
So I saw the shot coming. The trail was on a gentle upwards slope through the underbrush and did I see that shot coming a mile away or what. I ushered you and ‘Annie’ the testicled wonder dog ahead. The path was inclined as such that neither of us could see over the ridge where it led- at least, not practically. The trail was painted a mixture of sunshine and shade on the dirt and through the tree canopy, in the impractical far away, was a rolling hill collected in pine trees, smothered with blue skies.
I saw you and ‘Annie’ standing on that ridge, not knowing where the trail continued further, nor if it split (it did), or if it would be easy hiking. I knew there was that beautiful next ridge, somewhere after the next before it, that surely even in its distance it must be tangible. Surely we’d make it there. These were the last things I saw before I clicked the camera, the things that made me sad in their impermanence, in the fact that they too must pass and that perhaps not both of us, together, could stay walking the same trail, stay chasing the same hill in the distance.
And maybe where the trail split was where you looked outward through your pain to find a sense of value for yourself; and I looked inward through mine, my half of the pain that was mothered to us.