07/21/2026
When we visited, my mom and sisters would settle in to talk and I’d wander off.
My grandmommy’s house was full of photographs. Hundreds of them framed across her bedroom walls. Albums stacked on albums. The whole history of everyone I loved, waiting to be opened.
There was one I kept coming back to,my grandmommy and grandaddy before they were married, on the beach with their friends. Laughing. Walking out of places mid conversation. Nothing posed. Just joy, caught in passing. I had never seen them like that.
Young. In love. In the middle of a life I wasn’t part of yet. Those photographs let me know them in a way nothing else ever could. Not only as my grandparents, but as two people with an entire story before me.
I’ve said it before,photographs aren’t just images.
Proof of love.
Proof of resilience.
Proof that we were here, and that before the years passed and life changed us, there was laughter. There was tenderness. There was joy.
I leaned that in her house, sitting on her bedroom floor with an album open in my lap.
That’s where I fell in love with photography,years before I knew that was what was happening.
She never handed me a camera. She just filled a house with proof of everyone she loved, and let me find it. She was showing me my passion long before I knew to look for it.
And now, when I look at the second photo here,me at fifteen, in her living room,I think about how one day someone may wander away from a family gathering and find your album.
They’ll open it and meet a version of you they never got to know. Young. In love. Laughing in the middle of a life that came before them.
And for a little while, they’ll feel like they were there.
That is who I’m building it for.
Thank you, Grandmommy.