Before she passed away, my grandmother called me to her when we were alone. Her voice was weak, almost a whisper:
– Remove my photo from the tombstone in exactly one year. Only then, not before. Do you promise?
I tried to dissuade her from her dark thoughts:
– Grandma, don’t say that, you’ll live for a while yet…
But she only smiled weakly and, closing her eyes, repeated:
“Promise…”
I promised. That same night, my grandmother left this world.
A year later, I had almost forgotten about that strange request. But a promise is a promise. I easily unscrewed the fasteners on her grave, and as soon as I took out the photo, I screamed:
– This can’t be…
Hidden on the back of Grandma’s portrait was an old, faded photograph of a young woman – bright, lively, with a radiant smile, in a fitted dress against the backdrop of an old house.
She looked painfully like me. But in old-fashioned clothes. I took a photo of the tombstone and went to my grandfather for answers. He seemed to be expecting these questions.
When I showed him the photo, he smiled with some sadness:
– This is your grandmother. This is what she looked like when we first met. A beauty, you could make a movie out of her.
– But why did she hide it behind the current portrait?
Grandfather sighed, was silent for a moment, then said:
– She… was always very concerned about how she looked. Especially in old age. She often looked at herself in the mirror and said: “Why doesn’t anyone put young photos on monuments? Do we really have to be remembered as old forever?”
And then she added: “But if I put a young photo there, they’ll think I’m a vain old woman…”
I smiled through my tears. Everything fell into place. She just wanted me to see her for who she really was, just one day—in a year, when the pain had subsided. Beautiful. Alive. Happy.
