Snapshot, Cheyenne 1957

My mother's face folds into laughter.
For now she's coasting on life.
I'm hamming as usual,
Mom's fun kid; my brother's the serious one.

The two of us stand in the forest
the night green pines firm behind us.
Mother is taller than all the trees,
her head touches the sky.

Wearing someone's oversized clothes,
I'm six and goofy,
my body curls into giggles.
My grin is Wyoming sky wide.

Cloaked in my mother's exuberance
I draw her zest over me, inhale it.
Just as she inhales my desire
to be her laughing child.

Throughout life we breathe each other
over the hard places
until we can exhale on the other side.

A camera presses time like violets
Fifty years later,
that moment lies in my hand.
Happiness is thick on my fingers
dripping from them like honey.

The Laramie River flows
through my veins
illuminates bone and marrow,
until I can see, see through myself
see just how it works,
this thing called joy.

While the branches sing,
sing with the mountain wind
a requiem mass. This cannot last.
Nothing no one lasts.
But wait simply, simply wait.

There is always, always, a return.