Behind a photo

My grandmother was a beautiful woman when she was young, I've seen pictures to prove it. There is a photograph of her and her sister standing in front of an old station wagon. It was summer and they were both wearing striped crop tops and high waist shorts. The outfits looked worn, faded and homemade; the once sturdy fabric softened from constant wearing and washing. They looked carefree, happy, and young. However, what is not in the picture is more interesting as is usually the case with most photographs. Both my grandmother and great aunt were on their second or third marriage by the time this picture was taken and a kid each. None of this is reflected in the photo, it fails to show that although my grandmother was beautiful and vivacious, she was broken, poor, and desperate.

A photo of her before she died hid less than the original but you could still never tell from her worn face all the pain she experienced. A lifetime of abuse, vices, children, and men had slowly yet completely siphoned the fight she had once contained. Her hair once healthy, replaced with a straw-like textured, a boxed red color never mistaken for natural and barely hiding the gray. Her teeth long ago re-installed with cheap dentures, compliments of a staircase and long dead husband. A husband (one of ten), who met his demise at the end his own shotgun held by that woman in the photograph.

This feels incomplete, I know, but also it feels correct as most of my feelings toward a woman I couldn't understand and didn't know are incomplete. I am and remain haunted by the history that she hid behind her photos. All I have is what she left: a legacy of violence, failed marriages and half truths.