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The Choir Loft
I was giving my mother-in-law's eulogy. She had been a prominent and beloved figure in our village.
At the end I looked up. Her youngest son, 47, unemployed and still living at home, was in the choir loft, in army fatigues, having never been in the army, taking pictures: snap! snap! snap! of the funeral Mass. You could hear the snapping all over the church. The snap! echoed. Heads turned and looked up at the youngest son snapping away in the choir loft.
At the grave site. "This is what I do," the son proclaimed to everyone who would listen. "This is what I do. This is what I am all about. I am an artist." He had never worked in photography. "I use the old methods," he said. "I refuse to use digital. I won't work for anyone who uses these new cameras."
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