We took these photographs at the cabin where my Granny spend her childhood. It’s falling down, but it’s so incredible to see this ancient cabin tucked into the hills of Eastern Kentucky and know that my grandmother played under some of these trees. Kentucky is so full of history for my father’s family that walking through those foothills makes me echo with longing.
Looking at that falling-down cabin, I felt tears well up in my throat. It’s dilapidated and abandoned, and nobody remembers it but us. It’s not fair that the world keeps turning without my Granny on it. Things just go on, asters keep blooming, snow keeps falling, and “she is in the grave and oh! the difference to me.”
But I look at my sisters, their strong young bodies and their faces that bear echoes of her. I look at my dad and know there’s a spinning world of memory inside him that holds a perfect picture of my Granny. I walk the trails and thing.
She lived, like all of us will live, and it was beautiful and sad and hideous and perfect all at once. She died without much fuss, and the great golden world kept chugging along; but not without her. She with us still.