Something in her was broken.

She sat at the kitchen table. Where so many had come for tea and advice, or for sympathy.  May even have found it there.

I didn’t.

Told her I loved her. Safe to say it. 

Saw the last things she saw. Smelled the last cigarette she smoked.

Saw her mask, made when she was twenty years younger than I am now. Saw myself, reflected. Looked like my arm was around her.

She wasn’t looking at me.

These photographs were made two days after my mother died in September 2016. Click any image to enter a slideshow.