Back when photos were in three ring binders, held by the sticky, translucent pages. In the folds of my grandmother's photo albums, I found portals to the past. Secrets woven into the pages and frozen moments captured by the lens. Each image held a story, a fragment of time suspended in memory. I liked to touch the pictures. I wanted to hold them. Smell them. Run my fingers across the flat images and see if I could remember how the laced hem of the dress felt against my toddler knees. If the shoes, brown and stiff like my grandmother's salad bowls, felt as wooden and uncomfortable as they looked.
I'd trace the outlines of faces, the contours of smiles, and wonder about the unspoken tales hiding in each fading scene. There was one picture, I’m maybe two or three. Same persistent shade of cute…. Same windowed and expressive gaze. My hands locked in a silent plea, tears etched on my tiny, round face. What unfolded that day, I often wondered, as if the photograph held the key to unraveling the mysteries of my childhood strife.
Yet amidst the snapshots, there was one that radiated warmth. A scene of innocence, of a tender bond between generations. I am staring into the camera. In my arms, a yellow stuffed rabbit; beside me, my Grandmommy. She seemed to be made of crinkled gold and unbreakable glass. I remember her shining. Her eyes were a gentle invitation to trust in the staying. Her smile a perfect reason to smile in return. I remember cupping her face, a portrait of serenity; wondering why her skin was so soft and how those crevices were so smooth. I understood why her hair chose to rise and billow in majestic halo around her head.
Years would pass, revealing the reasons behind her steadfastness. But in those moments captured in time, all I knew was the comfort of her embrace, the assurance of her love. And, in her enduring presence, I found a lifelong reminder to always trust in the staying.
Love, Liz
(Your Granddaughter)
I, too, was lucky to have a grandma and a great-grandma who were "enduring presences" in my life. So enduring in fact, that it is hard to miss them because they are so much a part of me. They will never be truly gone when they are right here with me in the way I fold my towels, tear bakery buns open with my thumbs to make a sandwich, or hold my son in my lap while he sleeps.