Years ago, Henry left me a photo with his letter in the cookie jar. So I know he looks tall and lean, with eyes that are squinting a little--from light or from laughter, and his hair is dark and rumpled, as though he runs his hands through it when he's thinking.

I keep the picture, wonder how he's changed.

At the next turning, I put a picture of me into the jar, one from Kirkenes, at the height of summer--a day at the reindeer park, sun-drenched, the wind blowing my hair across my face, brown streaks across the freckles.


I wished he could know summer.