The snapshot is old, the image grainy. I’m young, in the middle of nowhere, hair blowing around in the wind.
Our teenager unearthed it and put it in her bedroom, as kids do. It was taken the summer I fell in love with her father. He and I had driven out to Trabuco Canyon, the air hot, the Santa Anas whipping down from the mountains. A red-tailed hawk was circling overhead and we had pulled over to take its picture. It had taken less time than you’d think to run out of civilization, for boulevards and malls to give way to steep cliffs and dry creek beds.