She was standing on the porch when we arrived—a tiny woman in a blue shirt, barefoot.
She was at that age when a face takes on a kind of peace and light that makes a very old person suddenly look like a child again.
A wrinkled, enlightened child.
Her name was Mrs. B. She was 77, and she had nine days left to live.
Not a sudden, tragic twist—just a long, relentless cancer that Mrs. B had been fighting for years. The doctors had recently marked an end to the fight.
We all understood the timeline—Mrs. B, her two daughters, Heather and Mona, and me. But we stood on Mrs. B's sprawling green lawn, pretending we didn’t—smiling, exchanging greetings and hugs.
It was a beautiful day, and we were there to make it even nicer. The daughters had prepared a gift, and I had volunteered to photograph the moment.
A wrinkled, enlightened child.
Her name was Mrs. B. She was 77, and she had nine days left to live.
Not a sudden, tragic twist—just a long, relentless cancer that Mrs. B had been fighting for years. The doctors had recently marked an end to the fight.
We all understood the timeline—Mrs. B, her two daughters, Heather and Mona, and me. But we stood on Mrs. B's sprawling green lawn, pretending we didn’t—smiling, exchanging greetings and hugs.
It was a beautiful day, and we were there to make it even nicer. The daughters had prepared a gift, and I had volunteered to photograph the moment.
The gift was a painting of a fragile white flower, the same one that hung on the hospital wall that Mrs. B had looked at during her countless doctor’s appointments. She’d once mentioned to Heather that it must be nice to look at something so beautiful every day. Heather went straight into detective mode: she tracked down the artist and bought a copy of the painting.
That day, Heather found herself with a little cold bug and grabbed Mona to help with the gifting—right when Mona and I were baking apple pastries and gossiping about our husbands. I happened to have my camera with me, so I tagged along.
That day, Heather found herself with a little cold bug and grabbed Mona to help with the gifting—right when Mona and I were baking apple pastries and gossiping about our husbands. I happened to have my camera with me, so I tagged along.
I hardly even got to say hello to Mrs. B before her husband appeared through the front door to join the gifting ceremony. I blended into the pattern of the tree’s shadows like a leopard, moving in sync with the sun flecks dancing on the porch, quietly clicking the shutter through all the smiles, tears, and hugs.
I even managed to suppress a that-could-have-been-loud sob when Mrs. B read the heartfelt note from the artist.
I was doing a pretty good job with the whole invisibility thing—and so was Death.
I was doing a pretty good job with the whole invisibility thing—and so was Death.
You wouldn’t have spotted her on that porch, bathed in love and the warm shimmer of a late September golden hour. Not a cloud in the sky darkened the moment, not a creak in the boards gave away her presence—yet she was there. Light-footed, silent, and patient.
– Well, who are you? – Mrs. B asked the stranger. – Dasha? Oh, with a T? So nice to meet you, Tasha. How do you know my girls? Lovely, lovely. Let me see your left hand—I have to know if I can trust you. That ring is very nice indeed. So, Tasha, are you good at keeping secrets? Come closer then. Come, come.
She leaned in, conspiratorial:
–You know, Mr. B and I… we never actually married. Four kids, so many years... We’ve just been dating all this time! I’ve never told anyone that, so you must promise not to tell.
–Oh, Mrs. B... I have a confession too! I’ve never married my man either—we’ve been dating for sixteen years!
She leaned in, conspiratorial:
–You know, Mr. B and I… we never actually married. Four kids, so many years... We’ve just been dating all this time! I’ve never told anyone that, so you must promise not to tell.
–Oh, Mrs. B... I have a confession too! I’ve never married my man either—we’ve been dating for sixteen years!
Neither of us was telling the truth, and we both knew it. We laughed. That was the moment we realized we liked each other. We could have been friends.
I felt my invisible companion smile too. They had become friends long before me.
I left. Death stayed for a few more days so she and Mrs. B could enjoy the new paintings together.
Those photographs became the last pictures of Mrs. B. Her family used them in her obituary and funeral ceremony, and later that year, the artist included them in her Christmas sendout, sharing the story of Mrs. B and the white flower painting—something she believed Christmas, and Christ’s birth, was about.
Mrs. B on her porch, greeting us. Barbie-Mona with the enormous painting. Heather with a halo of sunlit hair. Mr. B in his funny cow-patterned panama hat. All of them together, holding the white flower painting. Love, hugs, laughter, golden light.
I feel like I did a pretty good job of keeping the invisibles invisible.
