Before it's memory

In January 2012, I went to my grandma’s house for the last time. She had passed away a few days before. I knew it was my last time there, but it was not the same without her. I wasn’t her closest grandkid, I was no one’s favorite, but I felt safe at her place. She was strong and faced life with great fortitude until the last moment. Feeling safe in my childhood was very rare. My grandfather built my grandma’s house,  that place was an oasis, and I delighted myself with all the small details and textures. Later in life, I learned that my mom had gotten pregnant with me there. I remember being very small, laying down in my bed crying, and wishing I could shrink enough to become smaller and smaller to the point I wouldn’t exist. Now I know that would mean returning to before I was conceived in that house. It is where it all started and where it all ended. Years before my last visit, my grandpa, José, had passed away in the hallway in front of the master suite holding a screwdriver like a creator would. Several years earlier, my great-aunt, Alice, and I had our last conversation in that house. I was too little to visit her in the hospital. I knew she wanted to die, and that comforted me. She was an important part my refuge, and I missed her deeply throughout my childhood. I wish I didn’t, and I wish I could honor her. During this emotional last visit, I took a few photos with my phone, my hands were shaking, my vision blurred with tears, and the light was not ideal. I didn’t care much because all those images already existed in my memory. They were my heritage. I wanted to keep the most I could, hoping that it would make that moment hurt less. I had one oasis less. In January 2015, exactly 3 years after the day I took those photos, my mom passed away in the same hospital, my grandma did. I wish I had been there for my grandma like I was with my mom when it was her time to go. For 11 years, I couldn’t look at those pictures I tried to forget that last visit until these photos became my new refuge.