Forgot your password?

We just sent you an email, containing instructions for how to reset your password.

Sign in

  • Some photos are like testaments. Me at 16, boy-man serious. My dad, at 61 or so, months before he passed, what, looking confused, waiting for something. We were somewhere, not Texas, Colorado maybe. I have his back, he has my future. His deeply loved binoculars, always trying to study details in the distance. Always wanting to be in the mountains looking closer at the edges of things.

    I knew something of life by then. I knew it in a square jaw sort of way. Back straight, formal in my look into the camera. Pretending to be tough, perhaps.

    Now, I am just a couple years short of who he was then. With a square jawed son of my own. The distance in my father's eyes now belongs a bit to me. Maybe I'm not as vulnerable, but still I see the echo.

    Waiting for something, looking in the distance.
    • Share

    Connected stories:

About

Collections let you gather your favorite stories into shareable groups.

To collect stories, please become a Citizen.

    Copy and paste this embed code into your web page:

    px wide
    px tall
    Send this story to a friend:
    Would you like to send another?

      To retell stories, please .

        Sprouting stories lets you respond with a story of your own — like telling stories ’round a campfire.

        To sprout stories, please .

            Better browser, please.

            To view Cowbird, please use the latest version of Chrome, Safari, Firefox, Opera, or Internet Explorer.