The Photo on the Dresser

I take pictures to remember, but I write to understand. I wrote this story the day that it happened September 8th, 2022, to remember the day my son met my parents through a picture frame. He didn’t know their names, but he understood what that photo meant… maybe even better than I did.

The Photo On The Dresser

“Mommy, I need to tell you a secret,” Atticus whispered in the dark bedroom.
“What is it?” replied his tired mother.
He wrapped his tiny little arms around her and put his lips to her ear. “Please don’t die, Mommy,” he whispered.
She felt her voice catch in her throat. “I’m trying not to, every day, honey.”

It was only a few weeks ago that she had explained death to him. She had woken up to his sweet voice singing from his bedroom. His room was separated from hers by one wall, and she liked it that way. After breakfast, he galloped into her room while she was getting dressed.

“Mommy,” he said, barely able to contain his wiggling limbs. “Who’s that?” He pointed at the picture frame on her dresser.

“Oh, well, that’s a photo of my parents,” she replied.
“Parents? What’s parents?” he asked, his voice full of giggly incredulity.
“Parents are mommies and daddies,” she said matter-of-factly.
“Oh.” He stared at the photo.

Moments passed as he considered her words.
“Where are they?” he asked, his curiosity trying to piece things together.
“Well, they’re gone, honey. Both of them have died,” she replied, keeping her voice as level as she could.
“What? How did they die? Mad guys get them?” His serious face searched hers for answers.
“No, baby. Mad guys didn’t kill them. My daddy died when I was a little girl from cancer, and my mommy died when I was older from a heart attack.”

She could see the information whirling through his brain, the innocence in his eyes sparkling.
“Where are they?” he asked again, still not fully understanding.
“Well, one is buried at a cemetery in Moran and the other in a cemetery in San Saba.”
“What cemetery?” he asked. She knew, as only a mother could, he wasn’t asking which cemetery. He was asking what a cemetery was.

She sat down in the chair. “Come here,” she said, patting her leg.
He went over, and she pulled him into her lap.
“A cemetery is a place where people’s bodies are buried,” she told him.
“What!?!” he exclaimed. “Your mommy and daddy died?” he said again.
“Yes,” she replied. “My daddy had cancer and my mommy had a heart attack.”
“What’s a harttack?” His sweet voice stumbled over the word.
“It’s kind of like when your heart stops working.”
“Oh.”

He walked over to the dresser, lifted the small framed photo from the clutter of hairbrushes and perfumes, and brought it to her. “They have harttack?” he asked, pointing to the photo.
“My mom had a heart attack,” she said, pointing at the woman in the image. “My dad had cancer.”
“What’s can-ser?” he asked, working his mouth to shape the new word.
“Cancer is when stuff inside your body stops working right,” she said, struggling to help him understand. “His body just stopped working.”

He crawled back up into her lap. “Can we see them?” he asked.
“No,” she said softly. “They’re not alive anymore.”

She wrapped her arms around him and saw a tear slip down his cheek.
“Your mommy and daddy are gone?” he asked, his voice thick with emotion.
“Yes, but I always carry them in my heart,” she replied, hugging him tightly.

Awareness engulfed him, and he began to cry harder and harder until he was sobbing uncontrollably. His mother, tears now streaming down her face, carried him to her bed and held him close to her chest. They lay together until his tears had softened. She offered him a snack, and they got dressed to go to the dollar store for toilet paper.

As they were leaving the house, he yelled, “Wait!” and took off running down the hall. He came back with the small framed photo of her parents.
“Take this with me?” he asked.
She nodded, and the sound of the door shutting reverberated through the chambers of her heart as she followed him into the sweltering Texas sunshine.

What I Learned That Day

He was three and a half, full of wiggles, curiosity, and big questions. I didn’t expect him to feel it so deeply. I’ll never forget how he cried as though he had lost them himself, and maybe in a way, he had.

I’ve thought about that moment a lot since. About how memory travels through generations through photos, stories, gestures, and maybe even DNA. About how we carry the ones we’ve lost not just in our hearts, but in our children’s questions when they ask, “Who’s that?”

I still have that frame on my dresser. The photo and frame was my mom’s… something I never really paid close attention to. But sometimes, when the light hits it just right, I remember the way he ran back down the hallway for it… as if he already knew that he should hold on to it.

Taking the photo is how we notice something. Printing it is how we honor it. Displaying it is how we remember.

I would love to know whose photo lives on your dresser?

Comments are open below, friend.