Still Life

My Grandmother died about twenty years ago. I must have been about nine or ten. Today, I still remember being around her, her touch, things she would do, and how the family came together around her. I don’t really remember her dying but I do remember her being dead.

She was to be cremated, but before the actual cremation there was a ceremony. We had to wash the body. I remember the room being very quiet and it seemed unusually small. My Grandmother had had four sons and they were all there with their families; my father was the youngest. I remember my Grandmother being in the room, lying on a table, covered up to her neck with a white sheet. She looked larger than normal, like she had gained a lot of weight. I don’t remember the priest, but he must have been there. The ceremony was very simple. Each person was to pick up some water with a long bamboo ladle and pour the water over my Grandmother’s body. I remember having a huge lump in my throat and hurting all over, but forcing myself to be brave. My father once told me that I was a man and that I had to be brave and not cry. When it was my turn, my mother helped me pour the water over the body. It was a strange sensation being this close to and actually “touching” someone whom I had known once as living.

I often wonder how much of our past we carry around with us in our daily lives. And how many of those memories live on the edge of our conscious minds, waiting for the moment to make themselves visible. When I attempt to make a photograph, I rely on those memories to speak to me.