Aurora, Colorado: a shrine erected near the site of the Batman opening night shooting. The Century 16 theater sign - where in theater number 9, 12 people lost their lives - looms heavy in the background.

The morning of the Aurora, Colorado shooting I'd been in meetings until after lunch. On the way home my wife called and asked if I'd heard. "Heard what," I said. When I arrived home she was glued to the television. I just couldn't do that. I couldn't watch hour after hour of details trickling in. It was done, and at 5 we'd know more.

I went about my day, then was fully informed that evening. Still-for some reason, I couldn't connect with the event. I don't know if its happened so many times now it's no longer shocking. Or if a part of it felt like a made-for-TV drama. Something about it was surreal. Like it didn't really happen.

Over the next several days we'd watch the evening news, sometimes held in the vacant lot across the street where a make-shift memorial had come to life. After seeing it grow during subsequent broadcasts I knew it wouldn't last once the rains came and I had to see it for myself.

The following Saturday we were in Denver for another occasion and my son and I snuck away for a peek. It wasn't until I stood before the 12 crosses encompassed by mountains of personal effects did the full weight of what had happen wash over me. Photos of each individual murdered that night hung on the front of the cross; various verses, poems, scriptures and other commemorative writings adorned the back. What really caught my attention though were the hats adorning the tops of the crosses - somehow personifying them and finally – the connection was made.

Like the shooting, the murderer and the victims, these things will fade in time - in our eye and in our memories. That evening was a collective loss to humanity in the form of potential each of the 12 lives cut short held for the future. This image is my attempt to not allow it to fade completely from my memory.

Mamiya RZ67 Pro II, 110mm ƒ1:2.8, Kodak Portra 160VC (film)