The Last Walk: A Son, His Mother, and the Silent Gift of a Photograph

A Sacred Time in Bali

Bali has a way of slowing you down—not just in pace, but in thought. It asks you to see, not just look. And during the Galungan ceremony, when the streets are lined with penjors and the island is draped in ritual, that sense of reverence intensifies.

A Face That Stopped Me

I saw them before I heard them. A son and his elderly mother, walking slowly toward the temple in traditional dress. He wore white, a small fang hanging from his neck, and a quiet strength in his step. She—frail but proud, wore a lace kebaya, the lines on her face deeper than any shadow I could cast. They didn’t speak, but everything about them spoke.

There was something in her face—something that stopped me. She carried time in her eyes. That kind of stillness you only earn by living through everything and learning when not to speak. I couldn’t help but raise my camera.

One Click, Then Another

We didn’t exchange words, only a nod. But the moment was etched. I took the image, hoping that somehow the story I was seeing of tradition, care, connection would be preserved in more than just memory.

Later, as they left the temple, I saw them again. This time from behind, holding hands as they disappeared down the footpath. It was one of those scenes that didn’t need directing. It just was. And I followed the instinct: click.

The Return Visit

A year later, I returned with prints in hand. One of the things I’ve learned over time—especially in places like Bali—is that giving back matters more than taking the photo. I didn’t know if I’d find them again. I asked around, and eventually someone recognised the images. But the news came heavy: she had passed away not long after those pictures were taken.

A Photograph Becomes a Tribute

Suddenly, those frames weren’t just mine, they were theirs. They had become something sacred to her family. A moment that had slipped through time, captured just before it could vanish altogether.

As photographers, we often chase the perfect shot. The hero image. The one with sharp lines, ideal light, and maximum “wow.” But sometimes, it’s the imperfect, human moments, the quiet walks, the ageing hands, the farewell we don’t yet know is happening that stay with us longest.

More Than a Photo

This wasn’t just a photograph. It was a gift I didn’t know I was giving. A mother and son, on their way to prayer, caught in a fleeting moment that turned out to be her last walk to the temple.

And to this day, I’m grateful for the chance to witness it.