Very alone on a Sunday morning, at the end of an emotionally draining week, and I was killing time before driving myself to the airport to catch a flight home. My bags were packed, the camera gear carefully stowed, but on the table were the flowers which had been a source of hurt, and I felt the sudden need to memorialize them. I cracked open the camera pack, dug out the nearest body and lens and, with a heavy heart, set to work, continuing until I could not delay my departure any longer. In leaving I closed a physical door after a symbolic door had already slammed shut, knowing well that neither would ever again open as long as hearts remained closed.