Bone by bone, you were built from the meat of deer and mountain goats your dad and I heaved down slopes that tumble right into the sea. Where halibut swam strength into the flaky white flesh that framed your little lungs.

I can trace the red rhythm of your heart to Redoubt Falls—where the sockeye salmon thumped in pulses to reach fresh water, where their bodies fed the spruce trees whose tips are the sweetness of your breath.

Those silly abalone that bop their heads from side to side as they move through the black seaweed are responsible for your slippery skin. I picked so many blueberries when I was carrying you, that’s why you’re a little tart.

The chanterelles are your tenderness, the clams your stubbornness. The beach asparagus, your saltiness.

The lands and waters of the Tongass have given me countless gifts, none more precious than the little tangle of your body.

Like a parent to a child, you too will know a bottomless bond. To these coves, islands, and summits. The love. The need to honor, and protect.