The pictures aren’t sharp, and neither are the memories.

What I do remember: the fig bush in my grandparents’ yard, the picnic table under the shade tree, and my grandmother’s laugh.

That’s me on the far right. I would turn four that October, but I’m still a ripe three in the fuzzy photograph. The other rugrats are two cousins and my baby sister, all born within a three-month period of time.

My hand is behind my little cousin’s back, proof that I loved him before he grew big enough to tear down my cardboard playhouse.

The next picture looks like a southern version of a Velasquez painting, a family mystery shrouded in balanced composition. My grandfather is steadying his grandson, while my mother holds my little sister. My father is at the far right, sporting a thick sideburn and a mustache, Burt Reynolds-style.

I’m the girl wearing blue, the same as in Las Meninas, and I’ve got a two-handed grip on a paper cup while I’m turned completely around. The family’s attention is directed to the babies, the newest lives in the world, and their antics.

In the next photograph, there is my grandmother, also a candid shot with her head turned to the side, along with my grandfather in his usual V-neck white T-shirt, his typical uniform for relaxing at the house, which included family get-togethers. 

My grandmother is wearing a wig, having lost her hair due to treatment for breast cancer.

And still, she laughed, a throaty chuckle and a ready smile.

It is July 4, 1980.

She would pass away August 4, 1980.

No one knew on that Fourth of July what would happen a month to the day after. 

She was only 56 years old, and sickness and subsequent treatment took her life in the same year that her family grew with the birth of three more grandchildren.

What a blessing, but what heartache.

How unfair it seems.

The three babies only have pictures and stories for memories. There are other cousins yet to be born who also have to know their grandmother secondhand.

But they do not carry the memory of visiting her sometime during the month between those dates, when she was in bed, too sick and too tired to move. Though I was young, I knew there were important decisions to be made. 

The adults were concerned and speaking in low tones. I remember sitting on the arm of the chair in my grandparents’ house and feeling very tired and confused.

I remember being at her bedside as she groaned in pain. It’s the final memory I have of her.

We will never be able to shut out the memories of sickness or accidents, heartache and loss.

Instead, we must choose to remember the good times.

The last photo was taken sometime before July 4, 1980. I was younger, my persistent pigtails shorter.

So what do I remember?

I remember her gray hair, clipped short, while she tidied up her kitchen and hummed a tune.

I remember her pulling me up after I had fallen off a chair at my house, smiling as she comforted me.

I remember her sitting on the couch and telling stories, always ready to talk, with eyes that danced and sparkled.

The same as my father now.

In that photograph, I see other relatives, those who inherited her dark eyes, the shape of her mouth and nose, and her easygoing ways.

Every time I see those family members, I see a reflection of her, and I am thankful.

And I remember.

Today is July 4, 2025.

Enjoy the day. Eat all the food. Shoot your fireworks. Take lots of pictures.

But more than that:

Smile. Laugh. Care for your children and grandchildren and family. Be good to them. Hug them. Love them.

They will remember.