Her story deserves a better ending. Not memory loss and dementia, but days on the patio of her house with good company and breezes off the river and picnics and parades and playing with grandchildren.
On this summer morning, as my sisters and I sifted through boxes of old family photographs, the memories were sweet. I am proud of my two younger sisters and no matter how hard I try, I can’t resist the need to take care of them. And they take care of me, too. They remind me that the love I have for photography was born in family vacations, and Easter portraits, and days when the biggest snowfall just had to be documented. We came across picture after picture, neatly arranged in albums, with my father’s handwritten descriptions of where we were and what was happening – “train wreck in Louisiana,” “feeding the gulls in Miami,” “where I stayed in Germany.”
It’s a funny thing, so much more than the science of genetics, to look at someone and see yourself – your smile, your expressions, and your manner of speaking. My sisters remind me that all I am and ever will be came from this family of people who did their best.
Our mother deserves “happily ever after.”