bathing in the well at canathus

A photograph was produced.
"Here, in this satchel. No, here. I moved it into this drawer."
Because it is blue and there are four frames contained within, four variations.
Really, it's a postcard. But, this is a photograph of the postcard, that she sent to me."
There was a time code stamped on the back of it and the glossy feeling and word named Kodak repeated itself, again and again, sometimes getting cut off, truncated at the edges. And the front was like early morning, when there were still a few stars visible, when shadows had not yet gained the edge given by the bright sunshine.
"She's been all over. Once at the water's edge, now in the mountains, where the snow covers the ground until May. And, sitting on the oaken swing looking at that old cottonwood in your yard, too."
Upon this twilight field, her face and on that face her lips and through those lips laughter. Or, its memory, which is like paint upon the hands, the fingertips, the fingertips coated and just barely touching a white wall.
The cars she drove with her pale legs!, The tires and brake jobs and other men and women drifting through her life, singing songs that could not be easily sung, that could not be heard clearly above the din of machinery.
Now, so far from your mother's cornbread, Tennessee is finally closer.