She refused to take off the wedding band. Four years since the accident, and she still wore it to remember the vows they both took. Her voice is hardly heard while her photography speaks in volumes. She had a degree in photography -- and a love for pictures; shooting them, not being in them. Her eyes were best behind a camera looking through the multiple lenses to the object of desire. She'd capture the pure moments and the raw; the desired moments and the burning moments; children and adults alike. The strange angles and the upside down smiles. The sour emotions and the unique anger that always surrounded each and every picture. Even the beauty had anger to it. Anger had sorrow and sorrow held regret.
The best time for her was the development stage. The dark room with all its secrets. Chemicals that aged with time, and the tubs that brought the pictures to life. It was her time to wind down from the mind-racing maze that photography always handed to her. It wasn't because she was dizzy looking through the lenses or weak when it came to the smells of the chemicals. It put her at peace. It was not that she was any sort of child always with a sharpie up her nose or sniffing glue. No. It allowed her a sense of belonging and it always cleared her mind of whatever happenings going on.
But she swore one thing.
She always saw the deceased in the pictures and the one that scared everything out of her?
Seeing her husband four years later -after- she watched him pass away in her arms.
