ジョシュ・ブローリンさんのインスタグラム写真 - (ジョシュ・ブローリンInstagram)「When I look at the fence up by where the chapel will be I see that the oak tree that stands in for a corner post has grown around the barbed wire like a freeze frame of a pockmarked landslide. You want to put your little hand on it, attracted, I know, to its unique topography, its gnome like suggestions. You take your tiny steps through waist high oat straw, squinting as you pass the little feathered arrows topping them so to protect your eyes. You look back at me to make sure I’m still there before you place your hand flat against the tree and where it’s built up, where the wire lives underneath. You leave your hand for a moment while I look at the back of your head and notice how silken your hair is, how long it’s gotten. I’m also trying to imagine your thoughts so you don’t do anything rash, like wrap your hand around the rusted barbed wire to the left and right; I’m here to protect you, a job that’s born into me as purely as it is to breathe. But neither of us move. All that sounds are woodpeckers knocking their way into other trees, and a distant cow calling for her calf. When I was your age there were thick mugs being thrown through windows, and drunken nights when my mother would pull men across tables and kiss them while their legs dangled. There were 100 mile per hour drives home, and there were cowboys who hoisted themselves onto 18 wheelers to shut out the screeching nag of my mother’s voice. The way you stand so still with your hand on the tree and the sharp wire underneath as we listen to the return call of the lost calf somewhere on the next ranch over reminds me of when she was still here. You, like white against black or black against white, remind me of her. — Photo by @kathrynbrolin」6月25日 2時33分