My mother’s natal river

Dear holy of holies, I know it’s a little late to be praying, this far into the meal, but thank you to the deer who became this venison, to the face before the flash photograph who became this me of a night at the brink of summer. Thank you to the Chebeague shore woodland dusk shot with question, and without whom I know nothing, without whom my voice is lost in the asking. Thank you to my mother’s natal river and its memory, without whom I would stand bereft before the crushing shore of the life that remains to me.