Aphasia and My Camera

He carries a camera because words sometimes slip away.

In the morning, aphasia feels like fog on a lake—meaning is there, but the edges blur. So he walks slowly and photographs what doesn’t argue back. A cup warming his hands. A leaf pausing mid-fall. The soft line of light where the floor meets the wall.

Mindfulness arrives through the lens. Breathe. Frame. Click.
Each photo says what his mouth cannot: I am here.
The shutter becomes punctuation. A pause. A period.

When the day feels loud, he lowers the camera and looks again. The world offers sentences in light and shadow, and he listens with his eyes. At night, he reviews the images—quiet proofs that meaning survived the fog.

He sleeps knowing that tomorrow, if words wander, the light will still speak.