Throw me back to summer nights that don’t end, to winter air that burns the lungs, to smiles that catch light and don’t let go, to fires breathing low in the fall. Throw me back— to hands that knew hammers and nails, to bare feet learning splinters, to running streets until names didn’t matter, to sweetness that lingered longer than it should. Throw me back. Now pull me in. Pull me in where it aches without warning, where laughter folds into itself, where the body remembers b

Wake up early in the morning. Have breakfast and turn on the radio. Listen for your unit while you do the dishes. You’re tired, well the boat will wake you up. Make a call and get the boat ready. We’re going to set the nets—the cold air wakes you up. The Yukon water is unforgiving. Now make sure the bank and smokehouse are ready. Gutters, tables, knives. Poles are moved, fire smoking, wood stacked. Six hours later, we check. 25 feet, nothing. 50 feet, 3 king, 4 dog. 100 feet,

After her, no light felt as bright. The small moments dimmed, and the big ones only made the emptiness louder. They say you don’t know what you had until it’s gone— but we knew. We knew the moment she took her first breath, and we felt it leave with her. She left us something behind— a gift that breaks us open, that makes us laugh when we shouldn’t, that brings her back in pieces we can still hold. She will not be forgotten. Not her, not any of them who have gone ahead— nor a