Claire Harbage

Thousands of mourners paid their respects to U.S. Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg during the two days her casket rested at the top of the Supreme Court steps, including former President Bill Clinton, who nominated her to the high court in 1993, and President Trump.

On Friday, Ginsburg lay in state at the U.S. Capitol, the first woman and the first Jewish person to be given that honor in the nation's history.

Ginsburg, who died at the age of 87 from pancreatic cancer, was only the second woman to be nominated to the Supreme Court.

Fukushima was forever changed by the earthquake, tsunami and nuclear disaster in 2011. Japan has poured billions of dollars into recovery efforts — clearing away radioactive waste, rebuilding roads and reopening towns. But what does recovery really mean? It's an answer filled with resilience, reinvention and regret.

The American dream takes on new meaning in photographer Eliot Dudik's series Paradise Road.

Through the images, Dudik takes the viewer on a journey across the U.S., from empty grasslands to suburban lawns, from dirt byways to mountain valleys, all along different roads named Paradise Road. Each photograph unveils a different view of a potential paradise through expansive landscapes and stoic portraits of people he meets along the way.

This year my grandfather turned 90 and my family planned to celebrate with a big birthday bash. It's not often that my whole family comes together, and I was excited. But then the coronavirus pandemic came. My grandparents isolated at home, the birthday party got canceled and a general anxiety about the health of the older generation exploded all over the world.

In 2018, Amy Parrish wrote a letter to her grandmother, who was struggling with dementia, but just a few months later, her grandmother died before Parrish got around to sending it.

Feelings of grief, guilt and nostalgia suffuse her project "Check the Mail for Her Letter," a series of photographs, modern and vintage, that explore themes of memory and loss in Parrish's life and her grandmother's.

It seemed like the perfect day for viewing the stunning flower-filled trees.

With warm temperatures and the sun out, crowds of people strolled under the cherry blossoms and spread out picnic blankets in Tokyo's Yoyogi Park last weekend, all but ignoring the posted signs warning of the dangers of COVID-19 spreading.

Near one of the tall white signs, two pairs of young women stood together and took selfies under the canopy of flowers, oblivious to the warnings.

Cross the treeless, frozen tundra of southwest Alaska, over ice-covered lakes and ponds near the Bering Sea, and you'll find the first community in the U.S. counted for the 2020 census.

2019 has become known as a year of protest. But this year does not exist in isolation: Protests have been emblematic of the entire past decade.

The 2010s began with the Arab Spring and Occupy protests, and are ending with a swell of anti-government demonstrations in India, Iraq, Lebanon, Hong Kong, Latin America, parts of Europe and beyond. The middle years likewise were marked by major protests on multiple continents, from Iran to Ukraine, South Korea, Zimbabwe and Greece.

Photographer Kari Wehrs was shocked when she found out four years ago that her 61-year-old mother had started carrying a handgun for self-protection.

Her family never had guns when she was growing up in a midsize Minnesota town. Wehrs' mother said no particular incident had sparked her decision.

Massive stands of silvery trees rise skeletally out of saltwater marshes at the edges of the Chesapeake and Delaware bays, a significant part of the coastlines of Virginia, Maryland, Delaware and New Jersey. A few dead or dying leaves cling to the trees' branches, but mostly, they are bare.

In contrast, lush forests spread out behind them, trees robed in green leaves and pine needles, still brown with bark, coated with their elegant summer colors.

Mongolia is changing. Rivers are dry. Pastureland is giving way to mines. And wintertime smog obscures the famed blue sky. How did Mongolia get here? It's a story of internal migration and economic transformation in an era of climate change.

Explore the visual narrative at https://apps.npr.org/mongolia/

The quiet of the late-winter morning is interrupted by a staccato of gunshots.

"Military drills," shrugs Kim Seung-ho, 58, the director of the DMZ Ecology Research Institute, a nonprofit organization that does research on the wildlife in the Demilitarized Zone, or DMZ, which is the border area between North and South Korea. A thick blanket of fog seeps over the forested hills on this late-winter morning as Kim stands, searching the horizon for birds, on the bank of the Imjin River just north of Paju, South Korea.

Photographer Chloe Dewe Mathews' newest book, Caspian: The Elements, takes the reader on a meandering journey through oil-rich central Asia following traces of natural elements such as fire, gas, salt and water in people's everyday lives. Her images work as small, fascinating stories about how the region's residents interact with their environment in surprising ways.

Editor's note: This story was updated on Dec. 3.

On an average day at the National Butterfly Center, a 100-acre wildlife center and botanical garden in South Texas, visitors can see 100 different species and as many as 200,000 individual butterflies.

The center also sits directly in the path of the Trump administration's proposed border wall.