first born of a first born. born in a whitewashed blizzard deep in the dark of night. in the heart of december, from the cold paned windows I blew my first breath.
there in the first buds of a life not yet lived, the mountains met me and somewhere across the winter white plains, they grabbed my heart. those mountains, purple bones in the setting sun, strung together my first sentence, held me up as i learned to first walk, dried my tears with their blankets of aspen, held my hand when i first felt fear. from them, i learned that there are gifts in this world that can be at once so beautiful and so cruel. they stamped onto my skin something intangible. made me into an artist, a picture taker, lover of words, a keeper of memories, a mother of children: a desire to be all these things, melded together, holding together, the shape of this soul of mine. i rise at first light. in one hand i hold my coffee, swirling steam of the roasted beans; in my other hand i hold the bucket that fills heavy with these things: the camera capture, the books, the beans, the words, the oils, the boys, my children, my life.
the list goes forever on.
yet, however the rivers run through the mountains of my heart, my children are always first, and i know they always will be. they sit upon the great divide, high above all else; they run their course, ever faster and stronger; and me, running along side of them, just for now; trying to hold onto the the knowledge that, one day, I will not always be their first. those first apron strings that once wrapped them up, will unfold and fly into the wind as a child’s first lost balloon.
so i wake each day, walking a path that is a constant unknown, one that is always misshapen, cracked in the crooks of the road from the wheels of our travel and the bare boned love I have for them, that is always first.
Anna Larson | Anna Christine Photography