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She spent an afternoon taking photographs at a country park. Spring had come and she had earned it. There was a dead deer near the entrance, roadkill, and it hadn’t felt morbid to kneel, in mowed grass, by its side and take pictures. This was her quiet tribute to something that had not expected death. Momento Mori.
Returning home she remembered from years ago, an old boyfriend, the city boy; a terrible driver who had rolled one car while swerving to avoid rabbits, then written off another after colliding with a stag. He had chipped his front tooth, and the small town dentist had done a poor job of matching up the colour. Their relationship hadn’t lasted, he probably blamed the tooth, she blamed his fecklessness. She hasn’t thought of him in years. She wonders does he still smoke? Then suddenly it comes back to her, he was a photographer. He gave her a Russian camera, or perhaps, not a gift, but something he’d left, expecting to return.
That deer today had seemed quite small, she could still sense the power once locked in its legs. Though young it was doubtlessly riddled with fleas, and ticks, and all the necessary evils of the ecosystem. A little flick of hair or fur stuck out on its back, an ear was dense with baby curled softness, its huge, dark eye, still open, reflected her camera back at her.
Photo not foundPhoto not foundBlog photograph copyrighted to the photographer and used with permission by utata.org. All photographs used on utata.org are stored on flickr.com and are obtained via the flickr API. Text is copyrighted to the author, Rachel Irving and is used with permission by utata.org. Please see Show and Share Your Work
