Through her lens

Unchanged. The room is unchanged. Yet it feels alien without her presence. A silence permeates the air, thick and full as though the house itself mourns her absence. I have always considered myself a man of few words, but now, words seem utterly insufficient. I find myself grappling with the strange duality of mourning her loss while resenting the material evidence of it: a camera. In her will, my mother left me this single item. A relic from her youth. Old. Battered. The scuffed leather traces the camera’s curves, stained with a hint of what was once her favourite perfume. My siblings, each having received more substantial portions of her estate, offered me sympathetic smiles and comforting words. My brother received the house, my sister her favourite jewels, and I, just this camera. I feel a sting of betrayal, followed immediately by guilt. How petty and selfish for such thoughts to cross my mind.

I lift the camera up, feeling it's surprisingly heavy weight in my fingertips. Dusty. Solid. Greasy. My mother always loved photography. Her house, filled with pictures. This camera was her companion. A silent witness to her artistic journey and, eventually, her life’s sacrifices. Remnants of our childhood linger. Emotions, captured and frozen into a single frame. I sit on her old armchair, the fabric worn and familiar. I raise the viewfinder to my eye, peering through it at the world she once saw. The room is transformed through the lens, framed in ways I had never considered. I feel a connection to her, as though seeing through her eyes offers me a glimpse into her soul. My mother. The artist. The dreamer. The woman whose depth I had never fully appreciated.

The days following her funeral are a blur. My emotions, a thundering sea. Waves of grief crashing against the shores of my consciousness. I carry the camera everywhere. Anywhere. Somewhere. Unsure of what to do with it, but unwilling to let it go. At first, it is an obligation, a tether to my grief. But gradually folds. Changes, almost. I start to see the world differently. I notice the way light filters through the leaves of the oak tree in my backyard. I notice the way shadows dance on the pavement. I notice the way the raindrops colour the concrete. Photography becomes my solace. It is an unexpected gift, a silent dialogue between my mother and me. Each photograph is a question. Tells a story. A presence of beauty in a world that feels so depleted of it. Through the lens, I begin to understand her passion. It is not about capturing images but about capturing moments. Emotions. Time.

One afternoon, I find myself in a park, the camera slung around my neck. Children play on the swing set, their laughter ringing through the air. An elderly couple walks past me, their hands interlocked. Radiating warmth and love. A smile tugs on my lips. The sweet scent of lavender drifts towards me as they pass by. I love photography, but it cannot bring justice to a moment. The smell. The feel. The taste.  I lift the camera and start taking pictures. Feeling a sense of purpose I have not felt in weeks. Each click of the shutter is a tribute to my mother, a contribution to her legacy.

The days turn to weeks, and my journey with the camera continues. I photograph everything: the vibrant colours of the morning sky. The intricate patterns of a spider’s web. the serene expression of a sleeping cat. I find beauty in the mundane. In the everyday moments that I had once overlooked. The world, once grey and bleak, begins to bloom with colour and life.

One evening, as the sun sets, casting a golden glow over the hills, I realise that I have found something profound in this journey. The camera, which once felt like a pitiful inheritance, is now a bridge to my mother’s legacy. It is her way of teaching me to find beauty, even in sorrow. The grief does not vanish, but it becomes intertwined with a newfound love for photography. My mother gave me more than an object; she gave me a way to see the world. A vision. A view.  A Perspective. Standing in the twilight, the camera in my hands, I finally understand. This is not just a camera. It is a testament to my mother’s love. Her dreams. Her hope for me. It is a reminder that life, with all its pain and beauty, is worth capturing. And in that realisation, I find peace. Appreciation. Acceptance.

Weeks have passed since that evening. This camera is no longer just an object. It is my purpose. My motivation. My connection. I begin to delve into the technical aspects of photography. The more I learn, the more I appreciate the art form that my mother cherished so much. I begin to compile a collection of photographs. They show my journey through grief. From denial to acceptance. I document the changing seasons. From the beaming sun in January to the powdered snow dust in July. the faces of strangers. Anger. Sadness. Happiness. the quiet natural moments. Each image tells a story. A story of finding beauty in the midst of sorrow. The camera, once a symbol of my loss, becomes one of hope and creativity.

My siblings notice the change in me. They see the camera as a positive influence, an expression of my emotions. My brother, who received the house, invites me to take photographs of our childhood home. It is a bittersweet moment. Capturing the familiar rooms. A place where my mother’s presence once filled every corner with warmth, but now each room echoes with memories and the ghost of her laughter.  My sister, who inherited the family jewels, asks me to photograph her wearing them. Preserving their shine through my lens. In these moments, I feel closer to my siblings than ever before. We share our memories and thoughts, each of us finding our way to cope. Grief brings us together. We are connected. We are loyal. We are family. This camera grasps moments from the past. Ones that will never return. Much like the hands that once held it.