My mother's hair, colored and highlighted over salt-and-pepper gray. Golden, shiny, pulled in a high bun, a symbol of youth. It looks bouncy and soft. The breeze floats gently over it and the sun softens the shadows. She's on a lake and the sun is setting.
Our car in the woods, in winter, where no other humans are. It's quiet. This is an image of privilege—not of unearned fortune, but of longing and experience. To have a vehicle that can traverse miles to reach unpopulated areas to listen to the silence. To be able to chase peace is a privilege, if only because we don't always have it.