- Vol. 08
- Chapter 11
April’s godmother died two days ago. In a home with a log cabin for its heart and recent composition hugged around it, with gently sloping floors and crooked corners, her spirit passed through the walls and shut tight like tube roses come morning.
April imagines her godmother’s soul dissolving as she stands lonely in the vinyl kitchen with the dead woman’s crammed daily planner glaring up at her from the table.
She cannot process, cannot find the focus to start canceling appointments and client meetings. May showers slip down her cheeks and carve out hollow holes in the gay paper.
A photographer enters unannounced because she left the front door open. In the drawing room, he pops open his tripod and mounts his camera. He aims the lens at the explosion of color atop the coffee table.
“My godmother is dead!” April screams at him. “You are not needed!”
The centerpiece wobbles. Quickly the photographer clicks, transforming life to memory. His snapshots are not perfect. The tripod is not adjusted to balance out the slope in the floor.
He has already been paid. He does what he has been paid for. April’s shrills bounce off his ears and fade into the colorful centerpiece.
The photographer leaves. Later he finds the photos enigmatic and loud, comforting and cutting. He sends one, out of politeness, to April. She uses it to set the color scheme for the memorial.
The rest he keeps; the rest of the photos are the ones without their shadows still intact.