In a worn envelope, a photo.
One I’ve not seen before.
It’s one of those mandatory holiday/birthday/everyone line up for a photo you all look so nice pictures.
Three generations of strong women in my grandparent’s yard.
First impression – happiness – it’s a photo of me with long hair!
Very few of those exist. Very few photos of that time exist.
My mother hated that hair. Couldn’t wait for me to cut it off again.
Look again –
Me - Gangly. Miserable. Nerdy. Withdrawn. 13.
I want to be anywhere but here.
Hair should be straight but of course that’s impossible.
Tired. I look tired.
My grandmother – Strong. Steely-eyed. In focus. 58.
Fifity-eight! That is not what 58 looks like today.
The executive’s wife. Living her role.
My mother - - really tired. Puffy. 38.
Her coat is too big. That never happens, she’s an expert tailor.
But wait – look again –
See that scarf around her neck? It’s hiding the radiation scars.
My mother had throat cancer. It was not good. She was very ill. That was all I knew.
See my grandmother? She’s propping us both up. Literally.
Willing us both forward. So strong. A Mack truck of strength.
No wonder her hair is snow white.
I remember now, she was living with us. Took charge. Fixed the dinners. Made my life a living hell.
My mother needed her. She was there.
Fierce.
She was fierce.
I understand it now.
I hated her then.
I sit with tears of understanding in my eyes.
Look again –
Why did my father keep this picture with him?
Why was it not in an album stored somewhere in my guest room, with all the rest?
It would have been in his desk, his dresser, somewhere private where even in his second marriage he could look at his “three girls.”
Perhaps having a photo of the time my mother made it through gave him hope.
Maybe he liked my long hair.
One I’ve not seen before.
It’s one of those mandatory holiday/birthday/everyone line up for a photo you all look so nice pictures.
Three generations of strong women in my grandparent’s yard.
First impression – happiness – it’s a photo of me with long hair!
Very few of those exist. Very few photos of that time exist.
My mother hated that hair. Couldn’t wait for me to cut it off again.
Look again –
Me - Gangly. Miserable. Nerdy. Withdrawn. 13.
I want to be anywhere but here.
Hair should be straight but of course that’s impossible.
Tired. I look tired.
My grandmother – Strong. Steely-eyed. In focus. 58.
Fifity-eight! That is not what 58 looks like today.
The executive’s wife. Living her role.
My mother - - really tired. Puffy. 38.
Her coat is too big. That never happens, she’s an expert tailor.
But wait – look again –
See that scarf around her neck? It’s hiding the radiation scars.
My mother had throat cancer. It was not good. She was very ill. That was all I knew.
See my grandmother? She’s propping us both up. Literally.
Willing us both forward. So strong. A Mack truck of strength.
No wonder her hair is snow white.
I remember now, she was living with us. Took charge. Fixed the dinners. Made my life a living hell.
My mother needed her. She was there.
Fierce.
She was fierce.
I understand it now.
I hated her then.
I sit with tears of understanding in my eyes.
Look again –
Why did my father keep this picture with him?
Why was it not in an album stored somewhere in my guest room, with all the rest?
It would have been in his desk, his dresser, somewhere private where even in his second marriage he could look at his “three girls.”
Perhaps having a photo of the time my mother made it through gave him hope.
Maybe he liked my long hair.
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