Picture Perfect

-my grandparents on Mum's side-

They have always been there I suppose, but I don’t remember ever taking much notice. Running around my nan’s house as a child, I was only ever remotely aware of the strange faces in the picture frames that graced her antique furniture. They were always simply that: decoration. Pretty pictures that I had no personal link with. Stories told in connection to the faces always vaguely lingered in the back of my mind, but eventually passed away when my nan did. The frames were stored in boxes to gather dust for a decade to come.

Until recently the frames resurfaced, along with letters and documents that have become so yellow and brittle they barely remain together. Years after they’ve past away, the reconstruction of my grandparents begins. Through the pages they grow, take shape and become more real to me than perhaps they ever were. The pictures no longer tell sugar-sweet stories of youths once lived, but tales of struggle as well as promise. Rough around the edges.

In this picture they are not much older than I am now. Looking at their pristine faces, I can trace the resemblance in my aunts and uncles, my 28 cousins and their own offspring, far too many to keep count. I can see traces of myself. Some watered down through generations, others unchanged. It is strange to think that maybe one day, my own granddaughter will open a box with my personal belongings, wondering who I was and what we still have in common. Reconstructing a version of me that she too can make peace with.