The Act of Disappearing

by Nathan Gower

All cameras capture the dead. The shutter opens, consumes the light, creates the image: an illusion, the ghost of some former self, what was but can never again be. The same person is never photographed twice.

Ohhhh. i love this.

“What follows is both real and imagined, history and myth, fact and fiction. The truth of this story belongs to me—and hopefully to my mother. Beyond that, I make no promises.”

She liked reading stories and poems—something she could disappear into,

don’t care. Sometimes it just feels good to talk without a filter, to purge all these words building up inside me so somebody else can deal with them for a while.

I’m not responsible for this man, I say to myself—the mantra of every woman at some point in her life.

If God was real, She wasn’t some great something ruling from the clouds; She was the every little thing in this painful and beautiful struggle of life.

I remember what my mom used to say about a painting—that they can be studied with not only the eyes, but with the soul—a portal through time, a conversation with all who have looked before, a shared experience with the dead painter themselves.

like a happy little Bob Ross painting.

Ha ha

woman works the dough in silence. Kyle and I stand by, watching her like she’s the host of a cable cooking show on mute.

“But then something broke inside me,” said Edith. “Like someone pulled the plug to my soul.