137 / 168
137
Love And
Memory
the stream of emotions that gushed through me like an open
floodgate of water, a torrent of chilled liquid rushing through my
veins. My cheeks were flushed pink from humiliation and I felt my
composure shatter like the icy surface of a lake that could no longer
bear the pressure. The feeling was familiar to me: failure. The
memories of my past failures came flooding back to me, and my
insecurity at being only an amateur photographer returned in force.
A cold hand gripped my heart and I felt as if my throat was being
constricted.
‘But, yiayia…’ I began to protest before I abruptly stopped myself,
sensing a mix of emotions within my grandmother beyond my
understanding. The way that I saw it, the faces in the first photograph
were smiling and the children were holding hands, laughing gaily; a
happy snapshot of a treasured memory. Yet, my grandmother’s face
reflected none of the fond happiness I had hoped for and instead
appeared pained as she instructedme once again to remove the photos.
I had omitted the few photos that I found pertaining to the
Second World War, feeling that my grandmother may not want the
reminder, but now I was beginning to realise that what I had
included was, in my grandmother’s eyes, a far worse reminder. The
five smiling faces from the first photo had been replaced by one
solitary figure wearing a sombre expression in the second. A picture
paints a thousand words. Looking at the two photographs now side
by side, the jarring contrast was obvious. I wondered why I had not
made the connection myself.
Here is what I believe: nothing causes suffering like the loss of
that which is precious and irreplaceable in life. They say that time
heals everything, but even a lifetime may not always be long enough.
Although we find ways to carry on in life, we all bear the pain of our
past – whatever it may be.
I reached across and tore out the first two pages of the album,
leaving jagged lines of fragmented paper as the introduction to the
collection of photographs. It hurt me to tarnish my months of hard
work but I suppose it made sense in a way – my grandmother’s past
was not without damage, so why should my recollection of it be?
I folded the torn out pages and slipped them back into my bag,
hidden from sight and hidden from memory.
‘
12