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Eyes Lawrence Peters
I somehow knew there was trouble trouble trouble when I got to the building she lived in. Her phone message was vague and scattered and I knew her, knew that wasn't her, so I came.
The sound of a window opening made me look up and I saw the arc of something black flow from above. I ducked into the doorway and black smashed on the hard concrete. It was a camera. Trouble all right. I raced up the stairs.
The door to her place was open and I knocked and entered. A warzone; a disaster. All her work on the walls smashed, ripped pictures and broken glass where there was once the order of her life. Then I saw her.
She wordlessly handed me a cup of coffee and the daily news and I took both. I needed the caffeine and the distraction to keep me from looking at her face.
Finally she spoke.
"What do I do? Who am I? What am I? I leave no mark, nothing tangible, no art no record of my passing. I just waste my time and life looking for nothing."
What do you say to something like that. You be strong and wait for the storm to blow over. If it ever does. I looked to the paper; another child killed by their parent's neglect. Infinitely the saddest thing.
But it was her picture that the paper used, one she'd taken in front of this building. I looked into her face again and felt the shock written there.
But I saw also the radiant smile on that child in the pictures face, saw his cocky proud pose, and knew that at least part of what she'd said she was wrong.
For a moment in time she'd meant something to someone, brought a smile to a child's face, captured the hope and dream, that with a click of her shutter she'd made his short life something special. I found a broom and started to clean up.
She'd done the same for me and I owed her many times over.
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