The details

           A pair of worn hands land gently on my own. They're ashy and feel like sandpaper. I resist the urge to recoil.

           "It's time to let go." I look up at the speaker, a middle-aged woman in blue scrubs and a semi-colon pin affixed to her top. I want to snatch it from her and throw it across the room. Instead, I stare up at her with ice in my eyes and tighten my grip.

           "No."

           Her eyes are infinite pools of warmth but do little to thaw the glaciers inside me.

           "It's time," she repeats gently. She looks behind me, and I follow her gaze. Two men, one light and one dark, stand in the hallway on either side of a gurney—like bookends with colorless faces. They're here to collect the body. They're here to collect her.

           I reach across the bed with my free hand and smooth out her hair. I tuck it behind her ear, a gesture I've done since she was a child. She used to swat my hand away and laugh. She does neither now. The nurse hovers in my space. Her voice is firmer this time.

           "Yes," she affirms. I glare up at her hatefully. It's not her fault, but I have nowhere else to direct my anger.

           "I'm not ready," I plead.

           "We never are," she says.

           I swallow, and the lump in my throat swells to the size of a grape. I wonder idly if my throat will close up completely, constrict to nothing, and take me out of my misery. I could join my daughter on the gurney, and they could wheel us to the morgue together in some sort of dark two-for-one deal.

           As if she can sense my thoughts, the nurse shakes her head sadly. She squeezes my wrist and gently pries my fingers loose from my daughter's hand. I've been holding it for over an hour, and her body has stiffened. I choke back a sob with the realization that this will be the last time I touch her. I give her one last long look, frantic in my desire to commit every little detail of her perfect face to memory.

           "Wait," I say desperately as I pull my phone out of my purse. "Let me just take a picture first, please." The nurse looks at me strangely but gives me silent permission, a taciturn inclination of her head. I fumble with the technology, my hands shaking with grief as I snap the first photo. Then a second. A third. I take as many photos as my nurse guardian will allow. We're interrupted by the sounds of polite coughing in the hallway. I struggle to my feet as I collect myself internally.

           I don't remember leaving the hospital or the next two weeks. The days after that run together in a blur, and before I know it, the summer sun has set, and leaves are falling at my feet. All I remember from that time are the photos on my phone—a smattering of freckles across peach skin, dark hair cascading in waves, and the whorls of a fingerprint that will no longer leave smudges in the waking world. I can see them even now with my eyes closed. It's still not enough. I print them and hang them in my home.

           When grief at last relinquishes her iron-clad grip on my heart, I find my days are long and empty, and I strive to fill the hours. I rediscover sunsets. Ice cream. The soft fur of a kitten. But for every joy, a nagging feeling looms. Will this small joy leave me, too?

           When I first pick up a real camera, it's a placeholder. It's one of many, many hobbies I explore to fill in the broken pieces of my heart. I create books filled with my photographs. I plaster images on every wall of my home except hers. Though I've photographed every inch of it to preserve the memory, I can't bring myself to change anything. Instead, I focus on the outside world and I point, I shoot, I edit. Rinse, and repeat. And with every soft moment of joy I capture, I feel the color returning to my face. I may not be able to hold onto the moments, but with my photos, I can hold on to the memories.

           My grief sheds from me like an old skin. It pulls in some places where it's not fully healed, and the skin is still raw and pink beneath. But I have momentum now. I have a reason to keep going.

           Over time, I developed my craft, becoming more technical and skilled. I talk with others and even share my photos, and eventually, I even land a showing at an art gallery. I'm here now, outside.

           "Are you ready?" he asks. I stare up into steel grey eyes. They're filled with concern.

           "No," I answer. Because I'm not. I've hidden my hands in my pockets, but I'm sure he can see them shake even now.

           "Hey," he says gently, "you can do this." I scrub a hand over my cheek for no real reason other than needing the tactile sensation to drag me from my inner world. There's a fresh well of grief that's sprung within me. I've organized this art showing in memory of my daughter and to show that there is life after loss. I remember the nurse with the semi-colon pin who pried my daughter's lifeless fingers from my own. At the time, I'd hated that pin and all it represented. It represented hope in a time when I had none. But things are different now.

           "Okay," I answer. "Okay. I can do this." I plaster a smile on my face. Fake it until you make it, baby. I square my shoulders and raise my chin. I'm ready. He takes my arm and leads me to the door, holding it open as I pass.

           The gallery walls are stark white in contrast to the color in my photos: peach skin, a smattering of freckles, dark hair, and the whorls of a fingerprint. I couldn't save my daughter from her demons, but I've saved her in the details. And in it, I've saved myself.