She cautiously steps around the scene assessing the light, the angle, the frame. She is objective, squinting through the incomplete rectangle made by holding up her hands with thumbs and forefingers making right angles, thumbs touching each other. She doesn't notice the cold cement on her feet, nor the scratches caused by stepping on thorns. She glimpses briefly and summarily dismisses the blood drops appearing behind her as unimportant. But this, there is something about this she needs to record. It is tugging at her.

She squats down, picks up her camera, and snaps two or three shots of the image before her. There is no feeling involved. She is detached. It is something she has to do. She does it, then walks away.

Many months later, she finally develops the film.

A dozen wilted blood red roses,
strewn about the cold hard ground,
a lone gold band nestled
amongst the thorns and bruised petals.

The unseen comes flooding back. The shattered glass vase outside the frame, the back view of her husband walking past with his mistress just before he steps up following the woman into her camper, and the strong scent of the dying roses he had given her, his annual token anniversary gift.

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