I remember being so very young, around 3 or 4 years old and pulling up to my Nanny and Juna's house who lived across the street from my grandmother, my mother, and I. We were parked in the yard beside my Nanny's magnolia tree. The light in the kitchen was on, they had those old fashioned pull down shades, and I could see the silhouette of my Nanny and soon to be my mother, flailing frantically about. I don't remember anything else about that night. I was told 3 days later before we walked into Peck's funeral that my Juna had died. I remember the immense sense of loss I felt at this news, more so, I remember seeing her lying in the coffin and knowing that I would never see her again. My mother lifted me up so I could see her. I touched her skin, it felt cold and strange. I hugged her the best I could and kissed her cheek. My mother started to pull me away but I didn't want to go. I fought and cried, trying to postpone the inevitable. I still recall all of this vividly, even 20 years later but I still wish I had a photograph of her in her last moments.
I think this sparked my love affair with death and the macabre. I am prone to imagining in depth what it will be to die when my time comes, more often after I became a mother. Mortality sits upon my shoulder and reminds me that this will all be gone sooner than I'd like. I seek out the worst, as if I am readying myself for the impending expiration of my loved ones. I find solace in the cupped hands of a Victorian shell, in the subtle poses that try to imitate the living. This man, woman, or child, I remind myself, was loved dearly. This may have been the only photograph in existence of this person just so their friends and family could look upon it and remember, maybe in sorrow or with memories of past joy but hopefully, always with love.