An old photograph I have is so mysterious. It's my real, biological grandmother. In a big, noisy, multi-generational family, no one ever spoke of her. When I bugged Lavinia Lyons, my great-aunt who raised my mother, she would tell me very short, conflicted explanations. This mystery woman was born, lived, had three daughters, a sister, many cousins and was erased entirely. Why?
The reason she haunts me and always has is that I have the only two photographs of her that exist, and when I saw them and asked about them, no one would ever explain about her, but they entrusted her photographs to me.
Her name was Sarah Garwood. I am one of her descendants. I wouldn't like her to be entirely forgotten. The photo that I have, she once must have held in her hand, after she got it developed at the photo shop. She is so young and so pretty and fragile looking. And that photo is taken during the Spanish flu, in Philadelphia. She must be under 20, or just 20.
Two little girls, Sarah and her little sister Lavinia. Lavinia lived to be 89 and saw whole worlds change.
That photograph is such a precious gift that my grandmother gave me. They both entrusted me with these simple, transitory, fragile things that let those other people exist through me, the photographs, the sewing machine, the deck chair.
The real world is every bit as mysterious as The Leftovers, a tv series I have watched about mysterious departures. But as the singer said in the theme in season two "I'll just let the mystery be."
ps. speaking of old things that talk, Friday, I showed my nephew a clay ashtray my daughter made about 25 years ago, He had just made one too. I think the things people make with their hands leave some of them inside and when you touch those things it is like touching the hands of those people.
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