Looking into and across the Grand Canyon from the rim. Photographs from a shoebox. Above layers of faded canvas genealogy books stacked sideways, pages upon pages, concealing the trees, roots, and branches within. Shadows define the depth and breadth that time and the river have sculpted.
Heavy objects cause the river to eddy back onto itself into pools of memory.
Within the canyon, on the river with him. I was fortunate for the time.
The view was (synonymous with majestic), a wedge of blue sky above the canyon walls. A week spent in the present, in the moment. Looking up, looking forward. Cannot look back, the river doesn’t stop.
Before it was time for us to go,
Before it was time for him to go,
Many years later, the river sunk a little deeper.
we would celebrate and share an offering. I put some thought into what I might contribute. When the time came, I could not gather up the courage. I should have done it. I knew what I was going to do. I would have told the story of our time on the river and the song I did not sing.
