Today, the HIghland Park Police Department returned the downtown central business district to the city’s residents. The yellow police tape encircling the area since last Monday was gone. Several restaurants and stores had reopened, but by my estimate, the majority were still closed, some with signs in their windows announcing reopening dates. I did not find that surprising. After all, some of the stores are normally closed on Sundays. As for the restaurants and bakeries, they probably did not have the necessary food on hand, given six days of mandatory closures.

I was a bit surprised by the number of people walking along Central Avenue. Not shoulder to shoulder, but a steady stream. Around 5:00 PM, bumper-to-bumper cars crawled eastward People were curious. Two passersby asked me, “Which rooftop?”

Despite people’s natural curiosity, very little visible evidence remained that this had been the scene of the horrific Fourth of July shooting. No blood-stained sidewalks. No shards of shattered glass. No chairs, coolers, shoes, or strollers scattered about.

Several of the windows in the Walker Brothers Pancake House were covered over with white paper. I overheard someone say that bullets from Robert “Bobby” Crimo III’s rampage had shattered the glass. Crimo had allegedly opened fire from the rooftop above Gearhead Outfitters across the street, unleashing a barrage of 83 bullets.

I did encounter two remaining signs of the shooting as I slowly proceeded toward Green Bay Avenue. The first was a baby’s bib with the words “Heavenly Sent” imprinted on the fabric. I don’t know whether this was dropped last Monday as a family fled, or if today someone decided to make a statement by placing it on the concrete planter encircling the bed of plants lining the sidewalk. I suspect the former, given the bib’s ragged condition.

The more haunting of the two signs was a doorway sandwiched between two retail storefronts. Scribbled in chalk were the words “Not Clear.” I assume this was leftover from last Monday — a signal to the teams systematically searching for the shooter that this space had not yet been searched. The rooftop sniper’s nest was visible from the doorway.

The two memorials east of the Metra rail tracks continued to draw people, but until dusk, probably no more than 15 or 25 people were paying their respects at any given time. The number of bouquets and teddy bears had grown, but more striking were three circular wreaths on stands. I wondered whether these originally adorned the pulpits during funeral services for the victims. While the memories and sorrow may last, the actual service lasted probably no more than a couple of hours, so it would be a shame to just toss the wreaths in a garbage bin in back of the church, synagogue, or funeral home.

A new memorial had appeared in the plaza immediately to the east of the pancake house. Seven wrought-iron chairs are arranged in a semi-circle behind a spontaneously, but thoughtfully arranged pile of flowers—a collective effort. Each chair held what appeared to be a hand-drawn portrait of one of the seven victims, with the afternoon sun casting a warm light over the otherwise muted colors outlining each victim’s face.

But I had not returned to Highland Park to linger over the downtown area or the memorials. Two vigils had been scheduled. I subsequently learned that I had the wrong address for the first one, which seemingly explains why no one was there.

The second vigil was scheduled for 7:30 PM in Sunset Woods Park, just to the west of the downtown—a lovely park with paths under the natural canopy provided the tree cover, tennis courts, two baseball diamonds, a playground under renovation, and a skateboard park.

I arrived at 7:00 PM, running into a local television news crew. They told me that I had the wrong location for the first vigil, but when they arrived at the correct spot, no one was there either, so I didn’t miss anything.

Tonight’s youth-led vigil looked like a no-go as I stood next to the crew’s van talking with the on-air reporter. By 7:15 PM, only two or three people lingered in the immediate vicinity, none of whom were teenagers. We talked about public vigils and how long communities that experience tragic events are “expected” to visibly mourn. To be clear, we were not being judgmental or critical. it was more of a philosophical discussion.

I did note that the Uvalde vigils seemed to take place over a two or three-week period, which inevitably raises the question of why the Highland Park vigils are appear to be winding down after just six days. Keep in mind, though, that there is a candlelight vigil scheduled for Wednesday night at city hall, as well as a group currently estimated to be in excess of 300 headed to Washington, D.C. on the same day to rally for meaningful gun regulation. At this point, I need to be emphatically clear: The Highland Park community is not required to die on the public cross, absolving us of our collective inability to craft solutions to an intractable problem.

Nonetheless, I could not help but wonder whether the greater number of victims and the fact that most were young children explained Uvalad’s more protracted outward response. The grief in Highland Park is both real and intense, so perhaps the difference is more perceptual than real. Notably, the Uvalde story remained in the headlines much longer because revelations kept emerging about the botched police response — and the horrific possibility that some if not all of the carnage could have been prevented. Moreover, Texas Governor Greg Abbott kept the story alive with his defiant refusals to consider any sort of assault-weapon ban.

By 7:35 PM, 20 or so people were standing in a circle for the second vigil. While waiting for the start, I overheard one woman tell someone, and I am paraphrasing, “Great, the news media are here and the turnout is terrible. The public is going to think this community is filled with horrible, uncaring people.” Neither the reporter, nor I, had drawn that conclusion, as I hope I have made clear. No one has any right to demand that the community perform as if it were an organ grinder’s monkey working the streets of French Quarter with a tin cup in hand. In fact, the reporter told another woman that she had no reason to be embarrassed about the turnout—that the vigils were an important part of the healing process, not to entertain the public at large. I might add, his report led the station’s 10:00 PM newscast, during which he never mentioned this or the other scheduled vigil. His now solemn voice focused on the day’s positive aspects.

As a photographer, I had thought about these and related issues before heading to Highland Park. Is it even appropriate to be photographing the community as it comes to terms with a shared tragedy? I obviously answered that question in the affirmative. Important events and occasions should be documented. This one fits squarely within my Public Declarations project.

As anyone who has lived 60 or more years knows, half a century passes quickly. Those who are children and teenagers today will have someone’s photographs to recall this seminal event in their early lives, just as today we look at articles recalling the fiftieth or sixtieth anniversary of an important civil rights or anti-war march, a presidential scandal, or a major rock or jazz festival.

During my three visits to Highland Park, no one objected to what I was doing—although one woman asked me to delete a photograph because in her words, “I am not wearing a bra.” I normally don’t comply with such requests because the person is in public, but this time I did—it wasn’t a hard call; she had walked into my frame while I was capturing something else.

While the reporter told the woman that the community was not performing for the media, I sensed that the community was acutely aware of the media’s presence. They intuitively knew this was part of the game now that they had involuntarily become the story de jour. Many presumably wanted the world to see them pulling together, while also hoping that the community’s visible devastation might lead to meaningful gun control.

As a photographer, I am also thankful in delicate situations for the ubiquitous modern practice of photographing everything with smartphones. Many people stood before the stacks of flowers in front of Highland Park’s Vietnam War Memorial, carefully framing the scene as they looked at the soon-to-be frozen images on the backs of their iPhones. They provide me with a little bit of cover. Thank you, even if you walk into my frame.

Returning to the evening vigil. . . . Lee Goodman, who was wearing an orange cap, took charge. He turned to the tattooed white-collared minister, asking him to open the vigil with a prayer. Greenwood then made a few remarks about his work as a gun-control advocate and a sermon he had heard earlier in the day. He then opened the asphalt floor to the group—sharing thoughts, fears, and concerns is part of the inward healing process. One man said he was not looking forward to returning to his office in downtown Highland Park—too unsettling.

A high school counselor urged people to take advantage of the available counseling services. I am not sure I heard her correctly—or maybe I didn’t believe my ears—but I thought she said the FBI-response team had assembled 500 counselors. I definitely heard the number 500. Someone else pointed out that some of the fury toys that had been donated for children were doing double duty with adult men.

There was general agreement that when people encounter someone who is acting weird, they need to take affirmative action. One woman had encountered a young Crimo walking on the streets carrying a boombox. She knew he was “off,” but what to do?

As the vigil to came to a close, light drizzle started to fall while the summer sky began its nightly transition. A woman from nearby Northbrook made some of the final remarks, indicating that she liked her town’s local summer festival, but is now hesitant about attending.

As I walked back to my car, I decided to take one final swing past the memorials. The crowds had grown; the Good Humor truck distributing free ice cream bars was gone; and the light drizzle had extinguished many of the once flickering candles, as well as causing some of the chalk inscriptions on the surrounding sideways to run.

In the southerly sky, a faint rainbow could be seen hanging over Highland Park. Some tried to memorialize it with their phones, but it wasn’t worth the effort—wishful photographic thinking . Too faint; too small, but a start. It will take more time to wash away the pain, but I am willing to bet that in a couple weeks, we will see a large double rainbow spanning Central Avenue where seven died and many others were wounded on Independence Day.

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