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It is a cool, breezy night; just cold enough for a jacket. The sun had not shown at all that day, constantly covered by the clouds as it was. The air strikes her warm cheeks as she pulls her jacket up around her. It has been a while since she last visited this place, but she is ready for it now, with her camera in hand. The canon's lens pokes out from beneath her black jacket, longing to see, wanting to capture everything with its gigantic eye. Memories from photos, but photos from memories. Hungry to catch a glimpse of souls with a flicker of the shutter. She hears it calling, knows it is seeig things she can only dream of seeing. Looking through the camera's eyes, she can see worlds of wonder, worlds so small that every detail and fiber is clear to the naked eye; the lensed eye; the camera's eye. If she snaps the picture now, she will see phantoms and ghosts of the past. Shadows from the unmarked graves. Victims from unknown diseases. Click. That is what she wants. Memories from photos, but photos from memories. Glancing at the names on the stones, she takes the pictures. One after another. Not stopping for a breath. Click, click, click. Three small above ground graves, sitting side by side, catch her eye. She read the dates. All infants. All two years apart in age. All with Rob F. and Elizabeth Smith for their loving parents. So sad. Click. She wonders if they ever had any surviving children that grew up and lived long lives. Click. An angel stands beside her. Carved of marble. Call to the camera's eye. "__________ lies here. _________________..." The last word is barely readable, so badly weathered is the stone. But it is still beautiful. She runs her fingers over the rough grooves that make up the name. She lifts the camera, focuses the lens; the eye. Click. |