I’m taking every photo we have ever taken together and re-examining its meaning. I lost you somewhere between shooting you on film — a shot of filmy grain and your smile — and a family vacation taken on my DSLR. Looking back, I’d rather have you captured in the black and white grain for the rest of our lives, because, I swear, your smile isn’t forced. Digital has too much of a stillness; an eerie quiet that leaves nothing to the imagination. It was with film that I knew you talked and still had the world at a grasping length. You were invincible and not in some tragic, too innocent way. Your mind was quiet and unafraid of questions. You harbored dreams of design and writing, and some days, cooking. These days your mind is so full of questions and mistrust that you have shuttered yourself unto yourself. And every day, as I wake up I pray that you know … I’ll love you in the shadows. I’ll find you in the darkness. I’ll dive into the deep sea. I’ll cross every continent three times over. I’ll search every mountain top. I’ll buy every color in everything. I don’t know what it will take, but I’ll do it all. You’re worth the thinnest air, the thickest forest.

And I’ll never forget you in the grains of film, because every little particle makes up who you were and who you still are to me.

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