“I remember this day,” she said.
I looked at Grandma smiling between her daughters.
“Was it soon after her surgery?”
“Several months.”
Linda smiled faintly.
“Mom almost refused to take this picture.”
“Because of the mastectomy?”
“No. Because Cindy kept telling her to move over.”
I laughed.
Aunt Linda carried the photograph upstairs.
Mom was awake, so we went in.
Aunt Linda handed it to her.
“You know what I remember about this?”
Mom studied it.
“What?”
“You bossing everybody around.”
Mom frowned.
“I did not.”
“You made Dad take three pictures.”
“Because he kept cutting off your head.”
Aunt Linda laughed.
Then her expression softened.
“You always talk about Mom’s operation like everything stopped there.”
Mom’s smile faded.
Aunt Linda pointed at the photograph.
“But look at her.”
Mom did.
“That summer she went swimming with us,” Aunt Linda continued. “She went back to her garden. She danced at my wedding. She complained about my cooking for another 20 years.”
Mom laughed through her tears.
“I’d forgotten the swimming.”
“I know.”
Mom stared at her mother’s face.
For decades, that photograph had represented what cancer had taken.
Watching her now, I realized Aunt Linda had made her see something else.
