I shouted in terror when Grandma asked me to remove her picture from the gravestone exactly one year after she passed away.
Before she passed away, Grandma called me over while we were alone. Her words could barely be heard above a whisper:
— Remove my photo on the gravestone exactly one year later. Not sooner. Will you commit to something?
I tried to comfort her and distract her from the bad thoughts:
Grandma, don’t say that. For you, there is yet time.
But all she did was close her eyes, smile a little, and repeat: — Promise me…
I promised to. That same night, Grandma died.
A year later, I had almost forgotten her strange plea. But a promise is a promise. At her grave, I had no trouble removing the screws, and as soon as I took out the picture, I shouted:
It’s not feasible.
On the back of Grandma’s image was a hidden, faded photograph of a young woman standing in front of an old house, wearing a form-fitting outfit, and grinning widely.
She reminded me in a nasty way. but wearing old-fashioned clothes. I took a picture of the gravestone and asked Grandpa for clarification. He seemed to have foreseen the questions.
When I showed him the photo, he smiled somewhat glumly:
That’s your grandmother. That’s how she looked when we first met. A real beauty, someone from the movies.
But why had she hidden it in her last portrait?
Grandpa sighed, paused to reflect, and then uttered:
She was always thinking about how she looked. especially when she became older. She would often glance in the mirror and ask herself, “Why does no one ever put young pictures on gravestones?” Should we simply be remembered as old people?
She would go on to say, “But if I put a young photo there, people will think I’m a vain old woman.”
Despite my tears, I smiled. Everything made sense.
She wanted me to see her for who she truly was, at least once, a year later, after the sadness had passed. Beautiful and vibrant. Happy.
