ANNE E. JONES
What You Lost Was Never Ours
Copper, sterling silver, brass, photography, and wood
3.75 x 2.75 x 0.75 inches
Photographed by artist
My grandparents owned property out in the country in North Texas. It was an idyllic setting for summers running free as a child. The property was bound by creeks on three sides. The best creek had a little spit of land that jutted into it. Our Papa strung a wire across the gully and built a swing over that spit so that, when you got going really high, you would fly out over the water. The creek was our haven. We skipped rocks until half the eastern bank was gone. We splashed up and down the creek on adventures and fossil hunts. When the Texas sun got overwhelming we would just lie in the water and watch the trees heave and sway far above our heads.
We all grew up. Papa passed away. Soon after that a storm brought down the swing. Weeds and thorny bushes gathered together and covered the path to the creek. I haven’t waded in a creek in ages. But when I look at this photograph, I can smell the summer mud and hear the trees creaking in the wind as I leave the spit and swing out over the water.