The truck jostles and my mother’s dog, Jake, climbs over her shoulder – sniffing the air to check perimeters. She chose him earlier that year because he had her younger brother’s eyes; Even though Uncle Sonny passed 12 years ago, I can see the resemblance. My dad pulls into a gas station before our drive southeast to Corpus Christi. I take the opportunity to stretch my legs, passing a young man quietly strumming his guitar. A long sleek dog, who seemingly just had a litter of puppies, was his audience of one. After delivering bottled waters to the back seat, I return with a camera and friendly handshake– His hand were calloused and oil stained, with a gentle grip that matched my own. I remark on the dog’s beauty and if he would like their portrait; “A” looks down with a caring smile as he said, “Sure. She’s not my dog– we just sort of found each other”.

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"We Found Eachother"