Emulsion

The Amish believe that a snapshot steals their soul. That would make this room a gallows. That would make these photos corpses dripping in blood red alkaline, souls slowly developing.

There are two things in these photographs; space and matter. The distance between two bodies and the hearts that feel it. The emptiness in mouths and the tongue that seals it. The gaps between fingers and the flesh that fills it.

For him, these pictures -- these souls -- are all that are left of her. It is possible that some of the dust floating in this darkroom is her dead skin. It is possible that some of the liquid glistening from the photographs were once her tears. It is possible the air, the stuff of breathing, once kissed her lips, filled up her lungs, and fueled her blood cells. But now, the most important piece she has left here is her soul. Slivered into millions of electrons and pressed into silver emulsion, becoming photographs, mirrors with a memory, drawings of light and darkness and matter and space.

On the counter, next to chemicals and film, there is a cardboard box. In it sits a few cds, maybe some notes, and a boy’s corduroy jacket. There are still movie stubs in its pocket, along with a shredded Kleenex and mints from a fancy restaurant.

Hanging on the line is a photograph of her wearing this jacket, his jacket. She’s looking straight out and he’s framing her with his arms and a kiss. Hanging on the line is a memory, a corpse, a sliver of soul stolen and hung up to dry.

Somewhere, someday these shots will be exposed to this world of brilliance and speed that invades his darkest of rooms. Maybe he’ll love again with all his body and all his heart, but never with all his soul.