It was September ‘08 and I was just about to move to the west coast and begin at University. I spent the weekend in Stockholm, visiting my grandmother in the suburbs.
In the afternoon we sat on the veranda having coffee and talked about the past and the future. I felt like she told me stories that had been buried for a long time.
When I left she sat on the stairs as she always did and waved as I left on the driveway. The sun shone and she was framed by the red house and white porch. I had my camera on my shoulder but left it there, not taking a photo of what would be the last time I saw her.
I’m happy that I didn’t. Happy that I’m unable to go back and look for traces that she would pass a week later. I can’t look for any tiredness or signs of age, no darkness under the eyes, no sorrow or weary.
I only see her sitting there on the stairs, smiling, waving, and I’ll always have that image of her my mind.