Photograph
I look at this, and all I wonder is... who is she? What has she seen, felt, dreamed... what memories did she pass through to come to this point, this frozen moment in a photograph that never lies, never could lie, because all it is is a photograph, still and empty and precise. And what even is this point? What is the photograph for? What is she thinking? Where did she come from, but more importantly, where is she going? Is she indeed a grandma? Has she a family, then? Children, grandchildren? What are they like? What is she like? How are the inevitable visits, the patter of feet as they dash around, excitable and joyful? Or are they quiet? Respectful, reverent? In awe of the relic, the monolith, the ancient and eternal, their grandmother? Have they another, or is she the only one?
And is she married? Is he still alive? Where is he? What have they passed through together? And apart? How did they meet? Did they go through school? Together, perhaps? It that how they met? What of the childhood? What did she see, growing up? What did she see of herself, in herself? What did she expect, what did see of the future? Is this anything she could have expected? Was any of it anything she could have expected?
But it never is, now is it? Never is what anyone expects... it always blows the expectations, or exceeds them, or simply becomes something else, because life is strange like that. Life is strange.
Any joy to it left, now? Or just tired, passing through every day, each to the next, knowing she will only grow more tired... as the grandchildren grow up, will she simply fade away, away from them, away from life... but what does she believe? What has she believed? Is her belief strong, or weak, or flickering, or dying? Is it who she is, part of who she is, a secret to be secreted away in a secret place... or just an afterthought? Nothing at all...
Looking at this, at the photograph, I know nothing at all.