Looking through the glass I watch him bend. Sunlight paints his shoulders as he stabs a beach umbrella into the dense, wet sand. The umbrella's scalloped edge flaps and brushes the horizon, its cloth fringes tickling far away tree tops. I crouch lower and sky slips between slightly folded canvas, his carved upper arms trap clouds and swatches of baby blue with him under the shade that he props on the beach. A straight-edged profile. Slender nose. Lower lip pinched to a perfect angle. Tossing my gaze through the lens I follow the contours.

Just a man with hands wrapped around an umbrella post, he leans down. I dip below him, shooting his profile against the sky. A flash.

Photography is about shapes. It is light. Distances. Patience. It is either frustration or surprise, but rarely just right.

Jerry tells me, I am sure these photographers take hundreds of shots, and you're just seeing their best.

I am crumbs on the couch, flipping through a photo mag like it's a blender.

What can I say? Hmmmmm.

Back on the beach. Dropping the umbrella he sits beside his girlfriend. Toes in the water she splashes him and I stop the droplets. My shutter opens long enough to trap shards of light slipping through beads of water.

Then a beach blanket. She turns to press a hand on his shoulder and leans toward him.

On their feet she laughs, hair flying. In his arms he dips her shoulders toward the water and her feet reach the sky.

Later I tell Jerry, they were great. They were playful and happy and perfect.

With a smirk: like you and me, he asks.

He is tough and dirty now with sawdust and grime coating him, making creases in his skin. A few days later, standing in the same place in the kitchen, he shuffles toward me. Droopy eyes and skin soaked with the warmth of sleep, I hug him and press my cheek into the smooth curve beneath his chin.

Photography is a bad dream.

Early pictures of Lily still scare me. Within her shiny eyes I see a vibrance trapped inside diminishing flesh sucked tight to her bones. Where else would that spark of life go? Fur without luster. No longer loping, she pulls heavy feet along behind her or just stops to hang her head. How long did she have left in that photo?

I took few pictures of Lily when she first came to me. No reason to remember days when death was close enough to touch every time I ran a light hand down Lily's knobby spine.