Nancy Hepner Goodman

On my last trip to Portland, I knew I wouldn’t see my mother again.  I had been at her bedside for a week and couldn’t stay for the end.  A small photo of my parents, newlyweds, sat on her dresser.  My mother had cut out the faces to fit in the circular gold frame.  That tiny photo hung on a gold tree with other tiny family photos during my childhood.  During a move, the photo became part of a collage that hung on the kitchen wall.  Then it ended up at my mom’s bedside in her assisted living facility.  Rushing to catch a flight, I grabbed it, needing memories to hold in the palm of my hand.   

A week later I got a call.  Had I seen the gold framed photo?  My niece wanted it.  I confessed I had it.  I didn’t want to part with it, so I kept it for a while.  A few weeks later, while looking through my mother’s boxes, I discovered the same photo, but not just the heads, the entire 3 by 4 inch photo. My parents on the lawn, wearing their Sunday best, my dad kissing the side of my mom’s hair.  I mailed the little gold framed photo to my niece. Relieved, she thanked me. I realized how much the photo meant to her when I saw it tucked in her wedding bouquet.

Today, we smile at the photo we share, as well as the bond it created between us.