My grandma died last week. She was 92. She’d had 3 husband and a number of adoptive families throughout her life, was taken in by nuns at one point, and went by 6 different names at various different times (most before her mid-20s).

I took some poor photos of photos from her old album, something about the added fuzziness of the copies seems apt – memories, identity, loss – all that.

Something she left behind: a book of poems, written in perfect copper-plate hand-writing, in a way more personal than any photo. Or maybe i just think that because I am a ‘book person’ and have pile upon piles of sketchbooks from over the last dozen years?

So long, grandma. We miss you.


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