Puck says...

Rachael Banks, Another Fall, 2018
When
I look at my grandmother, I find myself frightened by our likeness and
how we have bonded through a shared feeling of brokenness. My
grandmother has suffered greatly from a broken heart and a deep betrayal
that scorned her more than 40 years ago. Like me, she lives alone and
stuck within the confines of her mind for company. As long as I can
remember, she has always had a full glass of wine nearby and I find it
to be a painful reminder of my family lineage and the significant role
that alcohol has played in healing the wounds you cannot see but the
ones you always feel. Sometimes, my father becomes frustrated with her
inability to “move on,” but I understand how it feels to be broken and
trapped in a life of solitude. I understand the pain in your stomach
from confronting a lost and familiar face. As my grandmother has aged,
I’ve watched her slowly deteriorate mentally and physically, further
removed from reality and closer to being part of the earth. I wonder if I
will fall the way she has or if I can figure out how to be the person
to pick myself back up. I took this photograph of my grandmother on
Christmas morning – my quiet tears obscured the viewfinder and made it
difficult to focus. With every new bruise my grandmother accumulates, I
am reminded that some things never heal.
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