questions i forgot to ask

I found this photo, photo of my grandparents at my parent’s house in a closet in the guest room. It’s not an original, but that doesn’t matter. For some reason, I love this photo; it found a permanent home in my ribbon board, in my room. I look at both my grandparents, Catherine and Mark, and enjoy a glimpse into their younger years, younger selves, before I ever met them. In this photo, they look like they are getting ready for a formal event- my grandfather with a boutonniere. He still has hair. And is so slim. It is sunny that day and he looks as if he is about to look in the camera or is about to say something to the person taking the photo. I knew him as a photographer. I could see him directing the photographer here. Or maybe he is whispering something to my grandmother, something about the way she looks, or did she remember to call his mother, or something, something shared between a couple, a couple I knew but would never know about those silent whispers between lovers, friends. In this picture they didn’t even know that they would be each other’s until they parted, parted from this earth.

My grandmother, dressed so stylish for the time. Her dress, her shoes, her necklace- all perfectly put together. She always had this ability to accessorize and do her hair. Her hair with curlers. She is thinner too. She looks towards my grandfather; I see the glimpse of a smile about to break. Her eyes, her glowing blue eyes are closed, but I can see them still. See them still. In her face, in my brothers, in my fathers, and sometimes mine. She looks like she might have just told a joke, she was spunky and a spitfire. Spitfire. They stand before a garage, a garage for a house, a house when the people in the home only had one car, one car. The mailbox drop is in the garage similar to their home I knew as a child.

I wonder where they are going; I wonder where they have been. I do know where they ended up. I guess when I look at this photo I remember that these are my roots and remember the potential of love. Love that works, love that lasts. I don’t desire a replication of their love, their relationship- my grandfather’s inability to talk about his feelings would drive me batty, but the core of it, the relationship and the potential of a beginning, a beginning of a life, lives that led to mine. To mine. And when I look around the room, the rooms, at my uncle’s or aunt’s, all those faces are there because of them. I wish I could ask about their struggles now. I wish I could know if they almost gave up, on themselves, on each other. Because from outside, I can only do what I can which is idealize. Idealize but I want to know more. I want to know more.