I am not afraid of death, but the process of dying itself.
My brother had asked me if I wanted to go see foreclosed property where two deer died in an attempt to jump a fence. I was interested in how the deer that could easily jump a six-foot fence could get impaled on a five-foot fence, so I asked my brother to drive me to the site.
I found that the carcasses of the deer were rotting on the fence like my brother had told me. The two deer were in various states of decay on different parts of the property. It was the first week of spring after a brutally cold and snowy winter. When the earth was buried in snow the deer tried to jump the fence and sank into the snow as they made their leap. They had no hard ground to make the jump off of and ended up getting caught on the fence that was spiked at the top. They died a slow painful death.
No one heard their cries; no one saw their struggle as they died. Predators had left their marks, including me. Am I a predator taking pictures making my marks or am I telling their story? I did not hear their cries or see their struggle. I only saw the evidence of their slow struggle to die. And now I will also observe their decay.
I can tell their story, but will someone hear or see me?
Am I the deer? Taking my pictures that may or may not be seen. Like the deer no one sees my struggles. Or am I a predator taking the last thing the deer have left to give – their story.