William Royden

Then he placed it softly on the patch of earth in front of the infant's grave.

He said something to me I couldn't hear, so I moved closer.

He was asking me to help him up.

I put the camera down for just a moment and put my hands under his shoulders and lifted him.

When he was on his feet again, he seemed all right, just very weak and tired like an old man.

He told me to pick up the camera again and wait with him on a bench in the cremation garden a few hundred feet away.

He and I sat there for at least a half an hour.

At one point it almost looked like Cording had fallen asleep sitting up, but no.

He had just gone into a light, meditative state.

I smoked several cigarettes and waited for Cording to tell me what our next move was.

Eventually we rose again and walked back to the grave.

Cording picked up the sheet, or maybe I should call it a shroud, and then had me follow him again as he carried it away.

We went past the cremation garden and into a small grove of bushes.

There, Cording set the shroud on the ground one last time and unfolded it little by little until it was back to its full size.

He told me to get a close shot of it.

There were actually letters on it now.

Twelve inches high, somehow etched from the mud that had caked onto it, as if small fingers had used it as paint.

The writing was very clear, though the letters were spiky and shaky.

The words were Giora L. That was it, nothing more.

Cording stared at them for a time, seeming a little confused, but not scared like I was.