Daniel died in April, sudden and complete. A heart attack while checking the fence line near the eastern property boundary. The paramedics said he was gone before he hit the ground. They found his camera hanging around his neck.
Daniel was never without that camera in his final year.
A vintage Leica M6, the kind that still uses film that requires patience and intention. He’d bought it at an estate sale the previous summer and became obsessed with photography in a way I’d never seen him obsessed with anything. Every morning he’d walk the property, photographing fence posts and tree bark and the way light filtered through leaves.
Our daughter Caroline thought it was early dementia.
Our son Marcus called it a harmless hobby for a retired man with too much time on his hands.
I thought it was beautiful.
I thought my husband was finally learning to see the world again after decades of farm work and practical concerns.
I was wrong about so many things.
It was late July, 3 months after the funeral, when I finally picked up the camera. The leather strap still held the warmth of memory. Or perhaps that was just my imagination.
Inside the film counter showed 36 exposures, a full roll completed.
