Dusk at the campground. Mother and daughter. Mother calls Daughter’s name once, twice, three times, four times. Daughter finally answers, “I’m here!” from behind us. Woodsmoke is thick in the air. In the city, this would be concerning. Here, it simply calls attention to the impact of concentrated numbers of humans on small plots of land. Mother turns around in her hammock, interrupting her reading for the thousandth time, to reason with her daughter. “Stay where I can see you,” she pleads, “please, stay where I can see you.” Daughter rides up and down the paved hill, over and over again traveling far out of Mother’s line of sight. Mother cranes her neck. I wonder if she is able to read even a single sentence of her book. Is this what motherhood will be?
Siena Rose 