There’s something about this photo.
I see my grandmother as a young woman. I don’t know how old, really. But young. And beautiful.
And not how I remember her at all. But it’s easy for me to imagine her this way. Maybe that’s because I’ve seen this so many times in my lifetime or maybe it’s because I see this and I believe this is who she was.
She told me stories. Wonderful stories.
I always tried to see who she was and not see her as just my grandmother. I’m sure I got a glimmer. I doubt I got a good look.
And the daydream I’ve had about who she was is probably nothing like who she was.
- How I see it.*
I see her in an avante garde crowd, with the friends more like Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas than Ethel and Lucy. Worldy. Smart. Forward-thinking. I see them in the evenings in a room full of books, bantering about the current events and what how occurrences will affect the arts, the thinking people, the future.
Thinking and talking with fascinating people about important things.
I don’t care if my image isn’t who she was.
I’ll keep it.