The Camera Knows

I took Werner's camera this morning. I did not ask. I just took it.

I walked the old roads. The shop on the corner. The woman with a baby on her back. The taxi rank. The sky was three colors in one hour. I had no name for the last one. I kept the shutter going.

240 pictures by lunch.

For a minute I felt okay. Like I had a thing to say. Like if a stranger asked me who I am, I would not lie.

Then I walked to the cemetery. Where I shot my first roll at nineteen. Before I quit. Before I left.

I stood there and I felt it. The camera is how I look. Looking is how I do not go see my dad.

I know this about me. I have known it for years.

I kept walking.