Chapter 26 - The Photograph
Three years after the reunion, Lowri was eight.
We attended another family gathering at my aunt Hannah’s house.
Not Beatrice’s.
Smaller.
No one called it reunion.
Too much baggage.
Photographs appeared naturally.
My cousin had printed old family pictures.
One showed Celia holding baby Lowri.
It slid off a table.
Landed on patio.
My entire body reacted.
Heel.
Beatrice.
Album.
Broken portrait.
I moved.
Then stopped.
Lowri got there first.
She picked it up.
Looked at back.
No warning.
Just:
July 2018.
She smiled.
“Baby me ugly.”
“You looked like potato.”
“Dad!”
She laughed.
Beatrice stood ten feet away.
Watched.
Did not approach.
Lowri carried the photo to her.
“Grandma.”
Beatrice looked startled.
“Do you remember this?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“Cape Cod.”
“Mommy happy?”
Beatrice took time.
“Yes.”
Lowri handed her the photograph.
Beatrice held it by edges.
Carefully.
Then returned.
No:
Celia and I fought that day.
No:
Your mother hated me.
No adult correction of memory.
Just:
“She loved that yellow hat.”
Lowri looked.
“Hat dumb.”
Beatrice laughed.
“I thought so too.”
There.
A memory shared by two people who had once competed over who controlled the dead woman’s place.
No competition.
The photograph returned to Lowri’s hand.
She placed it back on table herself.
Nothing shattered.
May you like
That was the climax.
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