Produce: Labor's Fruits

As I paused to let a garbage truck turn clumsily in front of me, I caught the a scent-memory of photo fixer in my nose and it slipped me back years in time, back into the darkroom on a day reminiscent of this misty, muggy day. I'd spend hours with that familiar smell wafting into my head, my mind transfixed on images and processes and exposure times and light. By the end of such a day, I'd have a stack of dried down prints to marvel at, nitpick over, and sometimes actually enjoy. But the day had sure enough satisfyingly slithered away from me like a venomless snake through leaf litter.

Now, the days slip by but I've little concrete to show for those days of long work. My eyes become a filter and what does not belong deserves mention, a discussion, a suggestion, a lesson. The students glean something from every session, but in the end what exactly that is eludes measure.

What scent will trigger these days? Will this be a fond recollection of good work and satisfaction? My wish is only this.

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