ashes smolder and choke our air, as fires light in thousands of hearts.
We burn inside. We are cinders.
Tibetan chants pour over a hopeful audience in union square, and at every corner my lens captures another image of despair. A silver halide painting of a woman taping up a picture of her missing husband. Flowers laid against a tattered flag.
I prowl the crowd, waiting for the next picture to present itself. Somewhere along the way, a candle finds its way into my hands, and soon after, it is lit.
I have changed from observer to participant.
I cradle this tiny flame in my hands, careful to protect it from the sudden gusts that extinguish, and I don't know why I am here.
I look about and see hundreds of lights reflected in glossy, vacant eyes and I can see no fire like my own. Here we have become family for one night, a community assembled in the name of peace, and I am tresspassing.
The droning chants roll over the silent crowd and high above us, a roar intrudes. For a moment, the eyes of the crowd turn their attention skyward as twin warbirds circle our island.
In that moment, I know in my heart that the answer has taken wing, and so I blow out my candle.
