Father went into the hospital two days after Jane flew back to California. He died five days after that. He was only fifty-nine, but being sick for so long had made him seem much older. On my last visit, I held his hand and told him for the second time in my life that I loved him. His eyes were closed, but he squeezed my fingers. I was afraid I wouldn’t cry at the funeral because the hospital had felt so final, but when I saw all those people at the church, the tears I thought I’d used up came right back. I’d been expecting a small service, since Father’s world had shrunk so much in the past five years, but along with everyone from church, there were his coworkers from the insurance office and his pals from the model-airplane club. People I’d never seen before came up to me like they’d known me all my life. He was so proud, they told me, that I’d worked for a Wall Street firm in the Big Apple. He was so proud, they said, when I bounced back from my illness. Thank you, I told them, thinking of the film in the camera I was holding in my hand, a camera that went unmentioned. Exposed film is all I have of him now. My father has been reduced to imprints of light.

When Mother told me that Father had asked God to take him instead of me, and that my remission helped him to find peace, the way she said it made me stop what I was doing. I asked what she thought about that. “A compassionate God wouldn’t make that kind of bargain with a good man, and your father was a good man,” she said. She didn’t sound sad or angry, just matter-of-fact. This startled me. When Father was alive, it had been easy, or perhaps just convenient, to underestimate her.

I want Mother to have plenty of time to settle into her new life before I think about leaving Cleveland, but the second page of your letter gave me my first real smile since Father’s death. Deb, whenever I’ve pictured myself old (something I’ve only recently started doing again), I’ve pictured you nearby. Think of all the darkroom chats, the long walks for poetry and photographs! But there’s no reason to wait until we’re old. I haven’t seen Yuma since he was a baby. From Arizona, Jane in California is just a bus ride away.

As for teaching, a fellow from the Art Institute has invited me to teach in the photography department here. But really, the timing couldn’t be better, because this will allow me to come to you and the Desert School with a year of experience under my belt and not just as your friend.

SAM DECKER: I told Lilly I had nothing to do with the guy from the Art Institute, but she kept thanking me anyhow. The only people I know are my customers; I don’t bother with anyone else. Sometimes some dope will buttonhole me when I’m out shooting, but no one’s got any business talking to me then.