Hooks

He pulled off the highway, told his family to stay in the car as he left, but we followed anyway. Through a forest, he cut a trail, and about halfway through, it became apparent he didn't know the way. But as much to his surprise as mine, he found his destination. A clearing with a thick tree, his expression fascination. Carved into the wood some thirty years ago were three sets of initials, hard to see around the things that have grown. It felt for a second like my brother and I were the moss, growing over something he clearly had lost down the way. Maybe the other initials kept it closer to their homes than he did, and in a sense, it's true. He moved away to change his life and hold his kids, unlike the others who stayed somewhere I've come to consider a home, though provinces away, and seldom have I flown for the sake of feeling whole again. Instead, I'm seeing relatives I don't want to offend by saying they're nothing compared to the air. Prairies may have hidden beauties, but it can't compete with the energy there in the East. Whatever is in there air is humming poems as it's hooking like my father's knife did in the tree when he was young. I just wish people considered more the hooks buried deep in everyone.