Lucy's
four footed siblings greet me with the unbridled joyfulness of well
loved and well cared for animals who have never met a stranger.
They're all wet noses, frantically wagging tails and trusting eyes.
Her human family is more reserved. They both smile and say hello but
there's a wariness in their eyes, a hint of suspicion. Lucy herself,
a young pit bull, lies quietly on a quilt at their feet. She's a shy
and slow moving girl and I sense the camera slung around my neck is
making her apprehensive so I slide it to one side and kneel down
beside her. She watches me with her big brown eyes and sighs. She's
an innocent, made weary by the cancer and in her final days. We
spend several minutes becoming friends.
All
five of them live in a rusty van they keep parked on the outskirts of
a campground just past the interstate. They're here for the daily
meal that social services provides the homeless - today it's red
beans and rice with salad, iced tea and cornbread - and if the hot
water holds out, a shower and maybe a change of clothes. I'm here to
photograph Lucy. My friends in the outreach program tell me she
isn't likely to survive more than another few days and it's
impossible to be in the middle of all this poverty and heartbreak and
not want to break down and cry.
We
make our way - slowly, to accommodate Lucy - outside where the late
afternoon light is at its kindest. At the family's suggestion, I
shoot Lucy first so she can get out of the heat and back to her
quilt. For a precious few minutes, I worry about background and
focus and her expression and am actually able to forget about the
cancer. It's easier than I thought and when we move on to the hound
dog and the feisty little Jack Russell mix, the mood lightens
considerably.
The
pictures are a success and I'm grateful and honored I was asked to
take them.
Life
is what you celebrate. All of it. Even the end ~ Joann Harris
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