It is not unusual to carry around a photograph of your children or a loved one. To carry money or a credit card, coupons and checks, even a special rock you found on a memorable trail. But what is strange is never leaving this particular photograph at home. A photograph I save, and will never throw away. I look at it closely, and zoom in on the field in the background. It is a rocky, almost stereotypical, sand and rubble. The rocks are rough and rubbled; the dirt still smells like the morning. Moving to the left, a clammy grey hand lays limp on the terra-firma. Looking closer, it is obvious that the hand’s nails had not been trimmed in quite some time, as they were almost as long as an oak tree. I take a deep breath. Feeling the air enter my diaphragm and lungs, and the warm release of carbon dioxide into the atmosphere, the feeling I love. Looking back at the picture I move closer to the chest region, where a pool of red gathers around the clavicle. Envisioning the spread of the crimson substance, I breathe again and feel the pressure of the diaphragm extending and stretching. As a teardrop hits the laminated paper, I cross over to the man’s face, but stop suddenly. I cannot look any longer. It is time to stop mourning. He’s gone, John. He’s gone. Walking away without the photograph for the first time in weeks, I breathe in again and again, feeling expansion and release, with my tan, gloved hand gripping the trigger of a gun.