These are my maternal grandparents. 

My grandmother was a very tiny bulldozer of a woman. 

When I was about 6, I walked up to her medical care bed that was sitting in the middle of our livingroom. I was standing up, leaning on it with both arms talking to her, the bed a little higher than my chest. She was telling me that she loved me and not to be afraid, That she was ok. She would let her hand kind of hang over to touch my face. She smiled when I reached over to hold her hand instead. I didn’t think much of it, but remembered all the adults kind of scrambling to eventually roll her bed out the front door. She again said everything was ok. We had a little moment. 

When I was about 22 I was talking with my mom about her. My mom was reminiscing so I thought I’d share my wonky memory of her. It was all I knew to add to the conversation. My mom stood up from the table and looked quite disturbed. She said, “No, you can’t remember that!” 

I said, “I know I was really little when she died, but I have a lot of memories even back to as young as being In a crib. That’s just the only thing I remember about her”. 

She said, no she didn’t die when you were little, she died before you were born!

All my life I thought I remembered her and felt guilty for not remembering more. 

Well, I’m a creepy person, creepy artist, creepy aesthetic in general. I didn’t get to meet any of my grandparents...except for grandma Chinta (Jacinta) and I’ll never forget that “memory” of her.

Photograph Credit & Story By 

Cҽʅιʂҽ Vαʅιҽɳƚҽ