I came across a photo I don't remember taking. Of a nascent loss of a loved one. My mother, Iris, lies very quiet in her hospice hospital bed in the darkly-paneled living room. Just now, I'm tempted to call it the dying room, but hospice helps us see these last days as living to the fullest. Meager fullness perhaps, but none the sweeter.
My wife and my sister sit at her side, quietly attentive, supporting one another with their presence. A generous presence. Unflinching. Unblinking. Steadfast.
Two men are in the scene, standing some small distance back, attentive in their own way. Lost in strategy. I am one, behind the lens, composing this compact drama delicately unfolding. Witnessing with the photographer's eye, capturing deftly.
Across the room is my father standing in his undershirt about to speak. His face is a mixture of guarded concern, a bit lost in his own home, and casting about for a way forward.
In the coming days, we, his family will guide him to the funeral home, to the church, and to the cemetery. A week from now, he will start his daily sojourn afoot to the graveside to remember his Iris. A few months later, leave his home of 60 years to live nearer to us. And within a few years, as his capacity for memory erodes, this loss of his beloved Iris will be a forgotten loss.