The Girl In The Photo

A Little Tale.

Intérieur à la fillette By Henri Matisse (1905-1906)

Emma holds the old photo in her small round hand. Her eyes blur with tears as she gazes at the girl with long black hair in the sailor dress sitting on a garden bench next to delicate, ladylike Grandma Jane. The girl smiled sideways and peered out of the picture with intense curiosity. Emma continues flipping through old photos of her childhood. Her dear mother had collected over the years in the worn leather album. Her mother passed away only five months ago today, and it seems like her childhood was returning vivid memories. Her yellow lab snores under the round oak dining room table, and today’s mood makes her melancholic and homesick. The picture of herself at eight with her Grandma Jane brings back all the emotional intensity of that period, and she can still relate to that girl at 33. She drifts into a daydream on a rainy autumn November Saturday.

All she could do was longingly gazing at the Autumnal gray just like this one afternoon about twenty years ago when she was about eight-years-old after the death of her dear Grandma. She gazes blankly out the window, her thoughts spiral inward. It feels like an intensely dull Saturday. She remembers what she used to call melancholic autumn days: “the Most Boring Day in History!” When Autumnal Washington would let out all her pent-up emotions and pour down the floodgates of tears in the form of pounding rain, all she could do was longingly gazing at the gray, cold, damp afternoon and earnestly pray that the dark stormy rain clouds would go away. 

After Grandma’s death, she stomped from her reading nook in the living room and screamed loudly at her sisters to play with her or do something. All her sister could do was stare at the TV in a zombified state, lost in the flash and blare, mummified by the large screen’s hypnotic light flashes. She would disappear into the depths of the darkness of the living room while her sisters stared into the flashing Tv scene. She felt like a ghost invisible to the eye but not the ears of her sister. She shrieks like all the misery of the world. Her sisters did not respond. She skipped eagerly down the dim, quiet hallway to bug her mom in her small home office, where she was busily typing away. “Do not bother me right now. I am busy. ” Her moms snaps. Emma let out a long dramatic sigh. She stares at the colorful, odd bookshelves around the house, there is a bookshelf in every room, but none of the books seems interesting enough for reading. Then she runs upstairs to her small bedroom, each wall covered in colorful posters, and every nook and cranny covered in piles of books, blankets or toys. She starts digging through her stuff on her floor and twin-sized bed. Finally, after twenty minutes of searching and changing her mind on which of her favorite books to read, she decides on her favorite dog-eared and tattered book of folktales. She quickly slips open the tattered book to a well-worn place were her favorite story of all time The Jungle Book. She sits reading for five minutes, then she drops the dog-eared, heavy book to the cherry wood floor with a loud thud. The boredom of the day weighed her down. She jumps over the piles her belongings makes her way across the small bedroom. Intently stares out the small rectangular window the rain angrily pounds down against the house’s windows; she feels tears dripping coldly and slowly down her cheeks. She licks the salty tears around her mouth and feels blue all over. She sits in her messy room, crying her heart out with each long wrenching sob.

She wakes three hours later, the angry dark rainy clouds are gone, and the world seems to have calm down. However, her eyes hurt from crying, and she still feels very blue and cold all over herself. Why did her Grandma Jane have to die? She knew about death like her shiny goldfish and her grey-black lab could die, which she thought was only natural for animals. Why would her Grandma Jane die, wasn’t her Grandma always supposed to be there forever? She was convinced that she was supposed to die before her Grandma could die. Her mother tried patiently to explain that everyone would pass away at some point in their lives and that Grandma is happier in heaven now.  She does not believe this; how could Grandma be happier in a place where she did not know anyone, and she did not have her special grandchildren and comfortable armchair and knitting? She questions her mom about this point again. Mom snaps at Emma for asking so many endless questions, and she is tiring her out. Emma leaves her mom, goes to her quiet bedroom and stares blankly out the window. As the wind dances carelessly through the maple trees leaves outside and, the wind carelessly tosses the leaves around. The wind continues singing through the branches. She wonders if Darling Grandma sees the maple tree, and she hopes that she could see it too.

She slowly creeps out the backdoor and into the empty backyard. The icy cold November wind tears through her small body, and she shivers as goosebumps rise on her slim arms. She slowly sits down on the wooden swinging bench. She swings back and forth, letting her long slim legs fly in the chilly air. Her ears fill with the sad murmurs of the maples in the chilly air, and she imagines that she is s flying up and away from here into the exotic lands of her fantasy. She stands on the banks of the Black Sea, the warm and humid winds caress her face, and she breathes the fruity and spicy smells of an enthusiastic, vibrant land. She dreams traveling away from the boring hometown for a rich, warm land of colors, spices and, adventure. She enjoys telling her Grandma about her future life. Grandma Jane always understood Emma rich imagination. She feels tears rise in her eyes and tries swallowing them down. It feels like she is choking on a hard chicken bone. Her broken heart is pounding in her chest irregularly. She feels like her heart is splitting in half and breaking into little pieces. Her sisters do not seem to care that Grandma Jane is dead, and her sisters only cried at the funeral. Her mom said she was sad, but everyone dies, and we should grieve and move on with our lives. Grandma Jane would have wanted them to move on with their lives.

  “Where are you, Emma?!” calls her mom anxiously. She quickly hops off the wood swing and hurries to the back door. “What are you doing outside in the cold?”

She murmurs that she was just spending time alone, that is all. Her mom sighs, opens the door wider, and Emma slips through the back door. Her Mom moves across the room and sits in one of the tiny chairs in the kitchen nook.

She turns towards Emma, “I know you are still grieving your Grandma Jane. But, Emma, try to find a way to remember your Grandma without making yourself sick with grief.”

Her eyes fill with new tears. She manages to squeak out before the iron grip of misery grabs her heart. Then, like a great wave, melancholy sweeps over her, and she drowns in her misery. She falls into a giant heap on the floor and weeps out every emotion she feels. Her mom’s soft hand brushes her long black hair away from her tear-stained face.

“Honey, it’s going to be fine. Emma, we all love you. Grandma Jane is safe and happy where she is now.” Again, Emma chokes on her tears and great sobs. 

Her mom stands up and tells her in a no-nonsense voice to go lay down on the couch and rest. Emma slowly creeps to the blue sofa and drops onto the sofa. She pulls the multi-colored crochet blanket over her petite form. Her mom hands her a tea cup of chamomile tea with honey and tells her to drink the tea slowly. Emma sips the hot tea slowly and then curls up on the couch, her eyes heavy with grief soon closing in sleep.

When she wakes, the house is tranquil, all the curtains close, and all the lights are off. She nervously scans the empty living room, and her sleepy eyes rest on the glowing blue number of the clock on the bookshelf. It reads 1:30am on its square face. She lays back on the couch and she surprise she slept so long. She slept through dinner and evening and mom nor her sisters did not woke her up. How strange. She usually did not sleep that solidly. She rubs her crusty teary eyes and licks her dry lips. She slowly walks to the kitchen sink and fills a square water glass. She drinks it slowly, feeling every gulp pass her dry lips and slip down her sore throat. Emma walks across the living room and gazes at the family pictures on the walls, and her gaze lands on a recent picture of her and Grandma Jane sitting on a wood bench in the rose garden. 

           In the picture, Grandma Jane wears her favorite matching black pantsuit with her favorite deep red cardigan over her delicate narrow shoulders, and her gentle hand holds Emma’s tiny hand. Emma sits next to her Grandma wearing a navy-blue sailor dress, and her favorite Mary Janes; her long black hair hangs around her cheerful face with intensely curious, bright blue eyes. People comment her personality is apt to her Grandma’s character. Both women are enthusiastic, strong-willed, idealistic, and funny girls. She sometimes wonders if she would be as sophisticated as her Grandma Jane or, charming. Emma sometimes feels like she is not akin to her Grandma Jane character, she felt like a complete different person.

She lays back on the blue sofa and counts the light bulbs in the ceiling lamp above her head. Her eyes start to drift and blur, and she falls into a fitful sleep. Emma hears someone calling her name; she turns around. It is Grandma Jane, and she stands in the rose garden like the picture on the wall. Emma smells light pink roses, champagne white roses, and peach roses. She slowly walks down the small soft bark path past the rose bushes. Her Grandma Jane pats the seat next to her and, sit next to her and place her soft little hand into Grandma Jane’s hand. She chats eagerly about her dreams for the future. She sits on the wood bench, and the faint and gentle scent of the beautiful roses waft over the girl and elderly woman. Her Grandma Jane holds Emma’s hand and leads her down the soft bark path through the garden.

“Remember to always have hope, my dear girl.” She kisses my rosy cheek. 

           She wakes when the morning light blinds her eyes, and she covers her eyes from the painful sunlight that danced through the square windows. She stretches slowly and hears the soft noise of her mom in the kitchen. She slips into the kitchen and wraps her long slim arms around her dear mom.

“I love you.”

Her mom leans down and kisses the top of her shiny black head,

“I love you too.”

She knows at that moment her Grandma Jane will never leave her. She remembers the wise words of her Grandma Jane,

“Always have hope.”

           Emma touches her shiny black bob and gazes at the precious picture of her Grandma Jane and herself sitting in the rose garden. She is thankful that her mom loved them enough to save this picture in the leather album for Emma to look at years later. She remembers that day twenty-five years ago like it was yesterday. She feels tears rise in her intense blue eyes, but she swallows them down and slowly closes the worn leather album. She looks across the circular oak table and sees the words in a picture frame,

“Remember to always have hope.”

She has kept those particular words in her heart all these years after Grandma Jane’s death. She now sits in her quiet kitchen alone at 33 year old and reflect on her childhood memory. She feels empty now that the two most influential women in her life are gone. The women who taught her about the value of hope and love. She can only now remembers her Mom and Grandma through a photo in the worn leather album her mother made. Life is fragile and passes faster than expected; one day is a century done, and one hour is a year. The lessons she learned in her life would never happen again. Yet, she remembers every emotion and sentiment these women brought to her life twenty-five years later.