Tuesday, September 05, 2006
The photograph of my father is almost fifteen years old. It was only this week that I was finally able to display it on the shelf in the bay window. He was six months from death and had come to stroll with Mom and me through the spring gardens in Toledo. A gentler, wiser man never lived. He died within nine months of his diagnosis of Lou Gehrig's disease (amytrophic lateral sclerosis).
As I photographed the photograph - I noticed the Muse of the Dance smiling above him and then discovered the ghost smiling rapturously back from the holly bush outside the window. (No. I don't believe in ghosts, but couldn't resist that gauzy reflection's implication)