Exactly one year after her death, Grandma asked me to take her image down from the gravestone, and I screamed in horror as I did it.
Grandma summoned me over while we were alone before she died. Her voice was hardly audible above a whisper:
— Exactly one year later, take my picture off the gravestone. Not earlier. Are you going to make a commitment?
I made an effort to console her and ward off the negative thoughts:
— Don’t say that, Grandma. There’s still time for you.
However, she simply closed her eyes, grinned slightly, and said again: — Promise me…
I said I would. Grandma passed away that very night.
I had nearly forgotten her odd request a year later. A promise, however, is a promise. I had little trouble loosening the screws at her grave, and I yelled as soon as I removed the photo:
This isn’t possible.
She reminded me cruelly. but dressed in vintage attire. I went to Grandpa for clarification after taking a photo of the gravestone. He appeared to have anticipated the inquiries.
He grinned with a hint of melancholy as I showed him the picture:
However, why did she conceal it in her most recent portrait?
Grandpa let out a sigh, took a moment to think, and then said:
She was constantly preoccupied with her appearance. particularly as she grew older. “Why does no one ever put young pictures on gravestones?” she would frequently ask herself as she looked in the mirror. Are we only supposed to be remembered as elderly?
“But if I put a young photo there, people will think I’m a vain old woman,” she would continue.
I grinned despite my tears. It all made sense.
At least once, a year later, when the grief had subsided, she wanted me to see her for who she really was. Lovely. alive. Joyful.
