The camera was heavy and dragged at her shoulder. She pulled it into her hand, wrapping the strap as a brace behind her elbow just as he’d taught her.
With the camera in her hand, she started to see pictures to take. A pot with a single red geranium on a narrow set of stone steps, the very stone worn by a thousand years of footsteps. A neon-bright purple door beckoned her to photograph a stone house so old it might have been quarried by Noah’s sons. A Dalmatian stuck her nose out between forest-green, wooden shutters to watch her go by. A black and gray dapple cat impossibly asleep on the narrow keel of an up-turned fishing dinghy.
It was different seeing a village through a camera. Each image she took became a memory of its own. A man who would have passed for an aging hippie back home
