The Family Tree
Words by Anney Bonney
Photography by Thomas James Winchester

It was after the last white bead
had been rescued
from the bottom of the trunk.
The yellow newspaper broke into
shards as if it were glass.
soft hides and red feathers.

The ghost from the plains
over his shoulder
made him look taller, prouder-
his eyes smaller.
He wasn’t seeing the wall,
the dust,
what was happening next door-
Before the camera
looked away and he looked after.
Only awkward for a moment.