His favorite picture was one that he hadn’t seen until after she died. He always thought of her with short, dark, curly hair that would never turn grey enough to suit her liking, dresses with flower prints and outdated colors. He remembered the hugs, the smiles, the stubborn sweetness of a grandmother. The picture didn’t show that though. It was undated, wrinkles on all the corners where he had hoped to find captions.
It is easy to tell that the picture was of her and his grandfather. He’d counted 18 other people, all dressed up, most of them smiling. They sat around a table topped with open beer and champagne bottles. He had to guess that it was their wedding day. Their bodies were facing each other, eyes focusing on the camera. He thought that it must have been his grandfather’s family surrounding them. Some of the men sitting closest looked so much like his Papa did. His grandma was smiling, though a bit nervously. They look like they’d been dancing in the seats that they sat in, like they were floating on the air inside that ballroom.
He was surprised to find that before he’d known her as a pastry-baking, grandchild-hugging women in flowered dresses… she’d been a beautiful young lady, smiling on her wedding day, nervous about a picture being taken. All he could do was stare, finding it in that box. It was the most valuable of treasures in a garage he’d found stacked with them.
He kept some pictures for the memories they held, and others for the people they’d captured… but he kept that one because it showed him what she looked like as an angel, with her husband, floating on air.