The Mountain Man (Longest beard)
Future Lumberjack (Ages 5-12, costume beards welcome)
It's the last category that stops me in my tracks.
A cluster of kids have gathered near a craft table, where someone has set up a “Build Your Own Beard” station.
Yarn, felt, cotton balls, and elastic bands spread across the surface like a facial hair buffet.
And standing in the middle of it all, patiently helping a tiny redheaded girl attach a lopsided yarn beard to her face, is Everett Morgan.
My camera comes up before I can think.
Click.
He's crouched down to her level, those broad shoulders somehow making the position look natural instead of awkward.
His hands—hands that were on my waist twelve hours ago, hands that I can still feel—are gentle as he adjusts the elastic behind her ears.
“How's that?” he asks. “Too itchy?”
The girl shakes her head solemnly. “It's perfect. Now I look like my Daddy.”
“You look even better than your Daddy.” Everett grins, and something in my chest cracks wide open. “You've got the best beard in the whole competition.”
She beams. “Really?”
“Really. But you can't tell anyone I said that, okay? I'm supposed to be a neutral judge.”
The girl giggles, and I watch something soft and devastating move across Everett's face—something that looks a lot likelonging.
Oh no.
Oh no-no-no-no-no.
I can’t go there. Will not go there. I won’t survive going there.
Camera. Now.
I hook my thumbs under the straps and follow them down into my natural handhold.
Click. Click. Click.
I'm documenting. That's all. Professional documentation of festival activities.
I'm definitely not imagining that expression directed at a child with his dark hair and my stubborn chin.
I'm absolutely not thinking about the future I threw away eleven years ago when I convinced myself that protecting everyone else was more important than protecting us.
A little boy tugs at Everett's sleeve. “Can you help me too? I want a BIG beard.”
