Poetry Speaks: "A Photo of My Grandparents" by Me

On sacrificial love that shapes another

Photo by Roman Kraft on Unsplash

I got a new bed last weekend, which involved some reorganization and decluttering. As I cleaned, I found a box underneath my old bed full of family photos, pictures I hadn't seen in a long time. There were grade school pictures of my parents, my older brother as a toddler, five-year-old me with a mullet (don't ask), and several of my paternal grandparents.

My grandpa died several years before I was born. He was only in his mid-50s. As a child, that seemed so old, but now I know just how young he was when he passed away. I only ever knew my grandma as a widow. She was happy, loved her family, and had a great sense of humor, but I've always been told I never saw her at her very best. There was a light inside of her that went out the day my grandpa died, though his love continued to form her.

Even though she was a happy woman, my grandma never smiled in photos, even when my grandpa was still living. She looks as stern as can be in my parents' wedding photos, something that's always made me laugh. One of my most prized possessions is a photo of her and my grandpa in a photo booth. She's beaming, and so is he. I have no idea where the picture was taken, but I treasure it because of Grandma's smile. I wrote this poem as I thought about the photo strip:

A Photo of My Grandparents
for Helen and Cliff

It's the only one in which she smiles, 
perched there on his lap
in the cramped space of the booth.

The curtain is shut, her eyes are open, 
sparkling like the lights of the party
outside. He smiles too, and I know

their reasons are each other. 
There were fewer reasons
when she lost him, no more

light-hearted moments
when two middle-aged people
laughed like kids for four quick clicks.

I never knew him, but her face tells me
all I need to know 
about what kind of man

left behind an absence
just as strong as any presence
ever was.

I love the photo because it depicts my smiling grandparents, but I also love it because it symbolizes that people have the power to mold us. I saw the effects of my grandma's grief even though I never knew the man she grieved. Though I didn't have a chance to know my grandpa, I saw the great love that remained in my grandma's heart. His love changed and shaped her.

Sometimes, the weight of the world and its problems can seem overwhelming. Great heartache and brokenness are all around us at any given moment. I'm a highly sensitive person, so I often pick up the emotions of those near me. Someone's good mood and positivity will increase my own just as easily as someone's bitterness and worry will invade my thoughts. Though we might feel powerless in the face of the world's struggles, we have a great deal of power over the people in our circles.

I want to be a person who brings light and goodness to the people I know. I'm not talking about simply being kind, though kindness matters, even though it only goes so far in the face of systemic injustices. I'm talking about being the type of person who loves so deeply that such love changes the recipient of it. The kind of love I'm talking about is a selfless, sacrificial love that costs us something.

Photo by Sean Robertson on Unsplash

R. Eric Thomas is one of my favorite writers. He's been on vacation in Italy this week and is sharing his trip with his Instagram followers. He loves sculpture, so he's been posting photos and videos that show famous works of art up close. I love art, but I've never paid much attention to sculpture. As Eric shared these pictures, I found myself in awe. To think that someone carved such beauty from hard stone is nearly unfathomable. The intricate detail is stunning, as is the fact that some of these statues are centuries old. Eric was his typical hilarious self, but the art was profoundly moving, surprising me.

We have the power to shape a person like a great sculptor shapes their stone. My grandpa would sew, cook, and clean off my grandma's snowy car during a time when men were the kings of their households. He loved her with a sacrificial love, impacting her even when he was gone.

My grandpa sculpted something beautiful, and my dad, his son, tries to imitate it with my mother. The way we love people doesn't stop with that person. It radiates outward. Just as pain can create a cycle of trauma, love can create a cycle of healing and restoration. What impact might we have on those we love if we remembered how powerful we are? Our words and actions are chisels that mark those who receive their force. I hope to be a great artist who wields her chisel well.

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I’d love to hear your thoughts on this post or the poem. Thanks for spending time with me today.