I bought a hotel room for myself and cried in it until the sun rose.

My left hand, holding up the camera, is making the shape my father's hand makes in the only photos I have of him:
the shape of a gun.

I felt so alive in this moment because I wasn't thinking of what feeling alive meant.

I'm grateful I remembered to shoot a photograph. It's hard for me to look at this. This is how I want to restart.