![]() ![]() She was the show and we were her audience. Her face was tight – with pain surely, but maybe also with anger or impatience at the act of dying. In those last days, my mother was gaunt and very much reduced, a meager mass of contours beneath the sheet of the rented hospital bed squeezed into the book-lined alcove off her living room. Maybe give insight into what someone – your mother, for instance – really felt about you, and you about her. ![]() ![]() A photo could be documentation useful to understanding something about life and death, I reasoned. I’m not so crass as to trespass like that.Īnd yet, the thought flitted around me like an unswattable fly. What dying person would say yes to such a request? I never dared take one while she slept. In the days before my mother died, I never asked to take her photo. ![]()
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