My hands are unwieldy. Awkwardly spaced fingers supposedly made for catching. There is only so much I can grab, and yet I want more.

I came home today to a box. With a frail, old envelope inside, painted and inked blue with my own hand. Under the fold -- you, in a photo -- as a small baby in the arms of my father's mother. I blinked. Lied my head on the couch. Missing her. Missing you that small. Missing it all. Missing even something as close as August.

Now I see why I am always collecting, hoarding. Greedily shoving lush bits of late summer in every pocket I own. All medicine for surviving things like winter and heartache. I file photos like tomatoes in jars. Endless piles in the cupboard of my brain. Photos one-by-one and two-by-two. Images in envelopes that I now see you can't take to heaven. Ones of my daughter that went from my camera, to my grandmother's hands, and 10 years later, back again to mine.

Caught here in a cardboard box on my wooden floor.

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