I took a picture of her then and there, with her hand on the child's grave, before moving off into the rest of the graveyard. As I went, I snapped pictures; Doug McKenzie 1859-1897, Anna McKenzie 1861-1911, Alistair MacDonald 1851-1901. There were MacDonalds everywhere, so I doubted that he was my relative. Still, I paused to touch his grave, before moving on. Seth MacFarland was next, an infant grave. How sad. I imagined the grief of the parents. With all the graves I wondered what kind of life they had lead, and how they had died. Some of it would undoubtedly be in the parish records, but by the looks of the church, those records might be stored somewhere else. I would do my research and come up with a few paragraphs to go along with the gravestone markings. Possibly I could locate an old tin type of some of the occupants. It was part of what made my books so popular. I always wrote paragraphs to go with my photographs, chronicling my thoughts about the photos. I would probably only use one or two photos of the grave yard, though I took a couple of rolls, but those few photos would be powerful.

I asked Alice "Do you have relatives buried here?"

The morning sun was up now, shining on the old stained glass windows of the church. I photographed it next, first from a ways away, circling it on all sides, and then closer for details. In doing so, I quite forgot about Alice for a moment. The old building was so sad; a house of worship abandoned by its worshipers. I wondered if the community church simply died due to a lack of younger families, or if the community itself shrank over time, as people moved to larger cities for work. It was all more research to be done. Tomorrow would be spent at the local library.

I approached the front door of the church, to find it boarded up. I circled until I found another entrance, which was miraculously open. Pulling open the ancient door was like pulling open a piece of history. I remembered to turn to Alice. "Better stay here. I don't know how safe the building is." I was not to worried for myself. I'd been in war zones before.

The entire church, besides the sacristy, was the sanctuary. Morning light flooded through the stained glass windows, as startled birds flew as I entered the sanctuary. Without thinking I cross myself. I grew up Catholic, tough I am Lutheran now. The pews and floor were covered with a century or so of dust and plants grew out of some cracks. I moved around carefully, taking pictures of the stained glass windows. There was Jesus feeding the five thousand above the entry way. It was a beautiful old piece of art and would make a fine picture, though this door would have to be boarded up before I left the island. I did not want curious tourists disturbing the old church, both for the safety of the stained glass, and for their own safety. The floor creaked beneath my feet, reminding me how precarious older buildings could be. I moved lightly and carefully through the aisles, looking for the best vantage points.