There is a photo,
in a box,
in a closet,
deep in the house,
of my grandmother in her garden.
Her back is turned,
she is snipping at too-long vines and weeds.
In this box
there is a history,
a million histories.
There is me,
there is a library,
a warm, glowing lamp,
a bowl of fruit,
a row of towering, lime green trees.
In these photos, a simple, sturdy oak is suddenly tropical.
There are faces and names I do not know,
but that hold the richness of my heart in them.
I remember when one of them died,
when my grandmother got the call.
I was there,
watched her cry,
deep, hollow sobs on the couch,
in front of that beautiful painting on the wall I loved so much.
These photos smell like mothballs,
which she never could quite rid her house from the scent of,
and fresh bread,
and old books, scattered around the house,
and the tap-shuffle of her feet across the floor.
These photos are bent, bruised reminders of the past.
Though I know I’ll never really need them.
Off to the side in that photo of the garden is me.
And I know the glisten of my grandmother’s forehead in the heat,
and the smile on her face,
and I wonder who else will know these things after I, too, am gone.
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