the farm

After a week with the fam in the 785 I feel more connected and less sure of myself.
I hang out with my cousins and aunts and uncles and little cuz's and my nearly-92-year-old gramma and I recognize kinship, in their eyes--the dark ones especially--in the backs of their hands, their laughs, a particular way of pronouncing t's.
Then I see how much like my sister my little niece is, how that even though they aren't blood-kin they most certainly share chromosomal attitude.
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This picture is from my gramma's farm, somewhere off Highway 40, near Fairport, nearly 100 acres of mostly wheat fields. On a 90+ degree day my sis and cousin and I wandered around, looking at bits of decayed limestone foundation and surveying the endless sky.