Read Part One here
The photographer removed the plate from the camera and disappeared into his wagon. Even though we could all move now, I stood still for a moment longer and thought about how this could possibly be our last and only photograph as a family. As if reading my thoughts, Margaret gently rested her hand on my shoulder.
“You know we can’t keep her,” she said.
On a quiet mountain trail is a little path that steals off down a slope and into the brush. It’s less of a path than it is a rabbit trail, but that’s almost the same thing in this context. Perhaps it is just an idea of a path that catches my attention when I pass by on my infrequent treks into this particular forest. When one happens upon it, they don’t stop. Most never even see it; those that do give a curious glance and continue on to their destination. But for me, it is the destination, or rather the beginning of a new journey.