Two months ago my grandmother suffered a stroke after years of slowly mounting health issues following my grandfather's death. Her physical symptoms largely abated with occupational therapy, but her cognition and memory have been slower to recover. She's now in an assisted living facility with twenty-four hour care, and the house she lived in for forty years, which was also my childhood home, has begun the process of becoming a simple asset and interim storage for a lifetime's artifacts.
This is a difficult process for everyone involved, foremost my grandmother. It's also not unique.
For my part, among the flurry of overwhelming sadness, empathetic fear and anger, I'm trying to catalog my own memories before the opportunity fades. It's one of my ways of coping. The house has changed its veneer once or twice since I was a kid, but there's still evidence of that time, along with more recent events.
This photograph is from my first opportunity to visit since my grandmother left. This is a work in progress.