In many ways–some of them quite idiosyncratic–I feel that my husband Jim and I are still a team.
One of the ways in which he remains with me every day–and in which I still can share him with others–is through his photographs. As I’ve noted before, he was panoramic where I tend to the macro. He was a big picture kind of man.
During the months before his diagnosis–when he may have sensed just a shadow of the ping of pain that would signal the presence of that hideous tumor–Jim took an extraordinary number of panoramic shots from high up. He climbed Fibonacci stairs and snapped away from magnificent stone buildings. He shot swaths of Fenway Park from atop the Green Monster.
Sector-by-sector, he captured slices of bustling cities, ancient structures side-by-side with modern ones. Century after century, generation after generation, were laid out below: great vistas above which we were but a fleeting presence.
Jim never saw life that way: beautiful, yes. Hopeless? Never.
After Jim died, our friends in Pennsylvania wrote that they imagined Jim with his camera, surveying sights we can only imagine.
It’s such a comforting image to me.
My Jim, from above.