I never saw my grandma holding a camera. The thought of her turning down the flame beneath the gravy so she could take a photo of the meal to come would have seemed ludicrous. The kitchen stove was in constant rotation, as was the table. If she did have a matching set of dishes, I never saw them. And the thing is, we never wanted to match. We sought out our favorite color from the aluminum juice cups, or one of the coveted A & W Rootbeer bear glasses. And maybe the images that roll through my head are more vivid than any photo could ever be. Heart captured, heart carried. Ever.

Yesterday I made bread and raspberry jam. The scent of bread baking that wafts through walls and stairs is only visible from the back part of my brain, the part with strings that pull at the corners of my mouth. My fingers have grown accustomed to the heat, just like grandma’s, as I lightly grab the bread just out of the oven. I laugh as I place it on the cooling rack because we won’t wait. We never let it cool. I make the too-soon cuts and add the French butter that melts in cracks and nooks. Then the jam. A sweet river of rouge. When the taste hits my tongue and my eyes roll back, it is then I can see the strings that are pulled tight against my smile — a smile that struggles to keep it all in. This is the photo I didn’t take. Nor did I shoot the one where Dominique got up in the middle of the night for one more slice.  But these are the images I share with you, and will carry with me forever, right beside my grandma’s stove, my grandma’s table, my grandma’s hands.