Well, one week ago tomorrow morning at roughly 5:00 am, to be more precise.
Words swirl around in my mind, but they refuse to be typed. Maybe that will come with time, but for now, everything's a little too raw.
For now, this will suffice.
The night after it happened, I had a weird dream where my sisters and I were in our childhood home, which was on fire, and we were trying to salvage things that we wanted to pass on to our children.
When I awoke, all I could think about was taking pictures.
So, even though it was weird, I starting shooting. I shot all the things that seemed to pull me to them, all the things that expressed in their simplicity the emptiness and shock I felt inside. His suits in his closet. His empty office. His bulletin board decorated with pictures from his grandkids. I shot them all. I shot them and then I ignored them, because I couldn't handle looking at them. But tonight, I forced myself to confront them. I both love and hate these photos.
They're far from technically perfect. It's hard to focus correctly through tears, and they don't match the pictures I had in my head, but they are something. They are a way of honoring our loss. Even Seth shot a few.
I guess this is how photographers express grief, and if that's the case, dad would probably totally get it.