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Jul. 23rd, 2009 01:15 amThis weekend, my father gave me two giant manilla envelopes full of photographs that belonged to my grandmother, Dorothea. Sitting at his kitchen table, I flipped idly through them as he kept trying to steal my cigarettes and a black beardog snuffled at my feet.
My grandmother tended bar her entire adult life, starting out at Chubby's back in the 60s. There are photos of her, standing in uniform, a line of women. Her broad smile, so like mine when I'm not being a self-absorbed twat. I never realized before how much I look like my grandmother when she was young. My father, leaning over the table, points out the white streak in Dorothea's hair and tells me that it started when she was about 30.
He taps my head, where my own streak has started to spread its wings, and I am suddenly reminded that there other people within me beyond my mother.
My grandmother tended bar her entire adult life, starting out at Chubby's back in the 60s. There are photos of her, standing in uniform, a line of women. Her broad smile, so like mine when I'm not being a self-absorbed twat. I never realized before how much I look like my grandmother when she was young. My father, leaning over the table, points out the white streak in Dorothea's hair and tells me that it started when she was about 30.
He taps my head, where my own streak has started to spread its wings, and I am suddenly reminded that there other people within me beyond my mother.