There was an old, fading photo on the back of her picture. A young woman in a fashionable attire stood in front of an antique house, beaming with happiness.
The features had a striking resemblance to mine. As if I were an old version of myself.
I visited my granddad and took a picture of the gravestone. I felt like he was expecting me.
He grinned wistfully when I gave him the picture, saying, “That’s her.” the appearance of your grandmother when I first met her. A real-life heroine in a film.
However, why conceal that picture?
With a sigh, he muttered: She was always conscious of her appearance. It was difficult for her to age. “Why do we post pictures of ourselves as we age on gravestones?” she would ask. Why not present our finest selves?
“But if I put a young photo, people will think I’m a vain old woman,” she would continue.
I smiled as tears trickled down my cheeks.
It all made clear now: she wanted me to find the glowing lady she had been when the sadness had subsided. With elegance. Of happiness. of existence.
