This is my grandfather. Died when my dad was a little kid. Motorcycle accident. He was a writer for a small paper in Lake Crystal, MN. I like to think about him.
Before my grandma died, I used to stare at pictures of her on the walls. I couldn’t seem to put the two images together: a woman with bright lipstick on the wall, a woman drooling in the corner. Towards the end, I couldn’t look at either. I really regret that now.
But my grandfather, here, is different. There’s no nursing homes and broken hips. No cancer. He’s half-known, safe, easy to dream about. Since my father sent me this picture, I’ve thought about how easy it is to look at. This makes me feel incredibly guilty.
Now I’m not going all Barthes on you, just telling you what’s on my mind.