'Pose' by Jolene McIlwain

His boots lay down a path through the Timothy and Queen Anne’s lace. This tall, tall boy, with his long boy-legs, muscular basketball player’s legs, strides through the meadow as warblers alight on stalks of ironweed, then lift again and call out. 

            The dog sniffs the bases of fleabane, goldenrod, bull thistle, then zigzags and looks back, making sure I’m following, making sure I’m still there. The dog knows the boy still needs me sometimes to lead the way, knows there are dips, crevices, brambles and briars, awful places to trip, get snagged, fall. He knows burrs will catch in his webbed Lab paws. He knows he could be swallowed by a groundhog’s burrow pipe—a den of three or four holes. Still he dashes back and forth before the boy.

            The birds are thrilled, chirping and trilling, seeing the boy ahead of me carving a path of his own. 

            I say “turn around,” but this tall, tall boy of mine keeps his back to me, the hem of his T-shirt lifting with the wind. He knows the act of turning around to smile for the camera will lose this moment, will drag us away from the now. 


(This story first appear in Pure Slush's tall...ish issue, vol 11)