Fred First

In a deeper-than-ordinary conversation recently, I talked about the tendency for people of a certain age to spend much of our thought-time in the present reliving previous experiences—having rememories, as our kids used to say.

I write this morning looking back on a half dozen years dominated by the ending of life among friends to begin life among strangers far away; from a place that is still home to me in name only—those same years past focused where we could not see but must go; years that left less of her and so also less of us, behind and ahead.

I came home today from my learn-your-camera walk in our little woods with nothing more than the cliched easy-catch suburban bird shots (male and female cardinal, red-winged blackbird) that I won’t bother showing. I entered my tiny apartment, reluctant to be under a roof again. I went straight to my camera roll. I was unimpressed with the results. I walked towards the daylight through my third floor windows, and stood there with the camera still around my neck.