Sometimes the end feels like the beginning, and the beginning feels like the end. I have been holding on tight lately. Unsure of which direction I will be going, I have been giving myself pep talks, reminding me that I can do it, that I can take whatever is thrown my way. I worry a lot, and you know those times when you suddenly realize how insignificant the stress you construct is, I had one of those moments recently.
My aunt Chavela (Chach) is one of the most loving persons in this world (no exaggeration here). She takes care of elderly men and women, she does it all, when they have no one else left, they have her. She called me recently and explained she needed a favor, she needed me to photograph one of her patients, Maria. Maria was in the process of arranging for her funeral and she needed a recent photograph for her tombstone. My aunt said we needed to do it immediately because the Dr.s give Maria a few months, max, to live.
I wasn't sure what to think of photographing a dying person. Really? How do you go and take tombstone portraits of an individual? I was forced to not think about it until the next day when I drove up to her small home on 29th street. I cleared my mind of expectation and I knew I was about to step into something heavy, and I would leave changed in some way.
Maria came to the states when she was 13 years old, with her best friend. She wanted a better life for herself, and my aunt (with a proud smile on her face) said she did exactly that. She never married, the man she was with and who fathered her children, was abusive. She has no family left here, they remain in Mexico. Her neighbors watch her very closely, and they take care of her when my aunt isn't there. They half-suspiciously watched me from their porch as I walked through the metal fence with my equipment, I think they knew why I was there.
She was a seamstress and a waitress and was very involved in politics and immigration rights. My aunt described her as feisty and proud, saying she always stood up for herself and demanded respect, even today. My aunt has taken care of her for 16 years and watching them interact comforted me.
Any nervousness I was feeling Maria quickly squashed. She hugged me when I walked in and laughed and talked the whole time. My aunt had to remind her to use her walker, she seemed to forget she needed it to be stable. Maria's blind and her hearing is going, but you would have never known.
I came with my camera and tripod because I had planned on photographing her outdoors, but Maria can't go outside because it's hard for her to breath. I got my tripod, came back inside, and my aunt had already arranged her.
Maria sat still for me, and she wanted to take some photos with her hat on too, and she wanted to do something with her hands, and she opened up her eyes, and she laughed and smiled, and looked like she was thinking of another place. She was clearly in control, and I felt grateful for her inviting me into her world. My aunt said she was ready to go, and I didn't know how to respond.
I'm not sure how to describe the feeling as I left, but for the rest of the day I thought about the things my aunt said about Maria, how she was a very special and religious individual. She said everyone comes to pray with her because when she prays for you, your wishes and dreams are answered each and every time.
![My Chutter [CHU ter] n-Spanglish for a device that limits the passage of light into a camera.](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcq0CMV3YRuaUlqekI38xP3-0R9RwLRZm0qdFeaQ2Zepo20dFeaP7RSF7cZk-MPe1fEcVV8aS28HhKmJwdfKbFo4BaS-B8xenoh75HaIL7Jq4fsFH5I9UaVFyYazM0chZlSiFQ8AblESaP/s730/forblog.jpg)
