Since I've been home, I've been collecting these images of my grandmother. I know there is some urgency to catalogue her. But she doesn't feel it. She gets angry that I am taking her wrinkles and immortalizing them, despite my constant pleading that a photograph does not amount the person to their appearance or their identity. That its more about me.
I hate that I display her sometimes, as a trophy Grandmom--the poet, the art collector, the woman who still works at eighty two, the one who gets me but angers me so much sometimes, because her neuroses get her.
She's a reminder to live in the present.
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