Don't hold a glass over the flame - any

[Mauve]

SO WHEN YOUR HOPE'S ON FIRE 
BUT YOU KNOW YOUR DESIRE

She is prone to falling into fits of gloom nowadays. Maybe it is the growing pangs, the way they twist her rambunctious grin into a somber and womanly pout; the way she has found herself pulling from that messy, carnivorous yip because the dreams seem too distant and childish and she is growing sick of the chase.

(The chase!
This one has been a protracted affair, dragging onto the heels of exhaustion.

But that’s the point. The prey starts to make mistakes...)

Mother would be so very disappointed to see her give up on her feral soul this way.
Her younger self would be horrified.

It seems she is all too enslaved to time. Not just in the marching, unstoppable progression of the seasons—this she admires now, between fleeting and longing glances at the mountain’s broody shape. The vivid colours of tenacious flowers, poking through the glittery snow and dotting the continents of exposed mud and yellow grass. Not just the nature of time, but also the way she begins to see time as a cruel master.

The young often do this, in their silly fits of gloom before perspective welcomes itself inward.

Needless to say, he comes at a good time. She is partially engrossed in solemn contemplation, partially in a cluster of dog violets, when he plucks gently at her hair, knocking some haze from her mind. She turns her bright, brown eyes in his direction, confusion pleasantly allayed by delight. Her rabbit’s cottontail waggles a bit and she takes a few quick, high steps from the bank. He has grown. So different from the boy she once crisscrossed Tephra with, one among a pack of many girlish hoots.

It makes her heartbeat quicken.
(Chase might have been a loose pastime to them—to her it was coyote and quarry, though she had decided against telling them that.)

She is different, too. She has abandoned the impractical long legs for slightly more practical short ones, having been gifted the diminutive size of her mother (though, proudly, a little bit taller). She is, as mother would describe, like a rock sat fast in a river. Sturdy and earthy; pony-ish, tempered by the wild, mustang heritage of her father.

“Canaan,” her voice has always had a slightly wily undertone, as if she looks for mischief in every wind that blows and every star that blinks. “I certainly wouldn’t have recognized you, so unencumbered by a gaggle of girls,” she smiles, moving along beside him, “too long. I have been... good.” The word good contains a sigh and it is not far enough from the truth for her to feel guilty, “if a bit restless on The Island. Where I haven’t seen much of you.” There is no accusation there. She gets it. Sometimes, she tests the merits of the wanderlust herself.

It is ingrained in her—a blood-thing, passed down through a couple generation of fickle women. “What have you been up to?” He carries many smells.

DON'T HOLD A GLASS OVER THE FLAME
DON'T LET YOUR HEART GROW COLD

PHOTOGRAPHY © RAY HENNESSY