Today I was going through old photos—old being last spring—and came across ones that I had taken while on a visit to family in Kentucky. So I spent some time skimming hundreds of captures during my week there in early May…bumblebees on sweet peas, as-of-yet unidentified butterflies and moths, daisy-like flowers that are probably weeds, three-leaved clovers…and I was suddenly overcome with sadness. Through all those images, grief re-emerged over my father, who, unbeknownst to us at the time, had only another six months of life left. I remember taking all of those photographs last spring as I walked the fringes of his small hay bottom, stopping now and then to take in the complete silence and gaze at the old house up the road—the one I had spent my first few years in. I chased flying insects from grass blade to flower head and after returning to the house I remember him asking me what I was doing outside and him not really understanding when I told him I was photographing flowers and bugs…just as he didn’t understand W and me wanting to drive cross country five years earlier. “Why do you want to do that?” he had asked.

Many of his attitudes perplexed me, but at least he was here to perplex.

So I guess that’s how the grief thing works. Time helps heal the wound until one brushes up too closely against its memories.