Captured in a Photo, Held in my Heart

How do you capture the love of a grandmother?

It has been just over three years since my Nana passed, and this is a question that lingers in my mind, as persistent as the memories of her.

How do I adequately convey what she meant to me? How do I describe the unconditional love she gave so freely?

I have found, as many people who have experienced loss can attest, that the answer lies in stories.

We tell stories to keep their memory alive. We look back at photos, videos, birthday cards to remember—to remember their face, their voice, their handwriting. To remember their love.

But in the photo of my Nana that I revisit most often, I can’t see her face. I can’t hear her voice. There’s no trace of her handwriting—the notes she wrote me on my birthday, the meticulous lists she kept of her favorite country music artists, be they young, old, legends, or rising stars. And yet, in this photograph, I can feel her love.

Four hands gathered around a table, working on a puzzle. My Nana’s hands are in the top right, my Pappy’s in the bottom right, my sister’s in the top left, and my six-year-old niece’s tiny hands in the bottom left.

Grandparents, their granddaughter, and their first great-granddaughter—three generations—sharing laughter. Most of it was directed at me, the person who bonked their head on the ceiling fan not once, but twice, while standing on the dining room table trying to capture this moment.

Laughter. Togetherness. Love. The kind of love that could fill a room, even when the reminder that Nana's cancer came back popped into our heads, encouraging us to treasure every fleeting moment and not take our time with her for granted. But I wasn’t worried. I knew she was going to bounce back. She always had.

I remember the exact moment that I began to think otherwise.

My niece is a curious child, unfiltered and honest in the way only children can be. For better or worse, she always said what was on her mind. As I balanced on the table, trying to get the perfect shot, I asked everyone to pause. The light in the room wasn’t ideal, and I needed them to hold still for a moment to avoid a blurry photo. They all grabbed a puzzle piece and posed as if they were gently placing it in its spot—though we all know puzzles are never that easy.

But my Nana couldn’t hold still. Not completely. She tried to pose, but her hand trembled, betraying her best efforts to steady it.

“Nana, why are you shaking?,” my niece asked, her voice full of innocent curiosity.

Nana laughed it off, trying to brush the question aside.

“Nana, stop shaking! Hannah is trying to take the photo!”

It was in this moment—this short interaction between a grandmother and her naive great granddaughter who didn’t know of her Nana’s prognosis, who didn’t mean any harm with her statements—that a wave of realization swept over me. Nana’s blood sugar was low again, a frequent occurrence as of late. Her cancer came back… months ago. And it was putting up a strong fight. Her kidneys were failing, and dialysis sessions were now occurring several times a week. And the woman who’s pantry was always fully stocked, who always had chocolates and chips and donuts on her table—who never let anyone leave her house hungry—no longer wanted to eat.

She wasn’t going to bounce back this time.

As I snapped the photo, my eyes welled up, mourning the loss of someone who was sitting right in front of me. I turned around quickly, pretending to check the photo, discreetly wiping my tears.

“Look good?,” my Pappy asked, his voice warm and firm.

“Perfect!,” I responded as I packed up the camera.

But the truth is, I didn’t even know. I never even looked at the photo that day.

Although I was trying to capture the photo to complete an assignment for my photography class, the photo no longer mattered in that moment. What mattered was sitting at that table. Working on that puzzle with my Nana.

I slid into the chair at the head of the table, the chair she used to have to sit in after I had playfully stolen her seat countless times as a child.

As we sat together, I watched her. Her hands moved slower that day. She guided each fragment with a tired grace, almost as if this task she once loved was now a chore. The joy she once radiated while working on puzzles was muted.

There was no “Wow, good job!” when I picked up a random piece from the box and knew immediately where to place it on the puzzle. There was no “Wow, you’ve really got an eye for puzzles!,” no “Where did you find that? How did you do that? I’ve been working on that section for days!.”

Phrases that I used to roll my eyes at, quotes that thought I heard one too many times over the years, I was yearning to hear again that day. But there was none of that. There was just the stereo playing the hits of Johnny, Dolly, and George in the background, as it always had, and Nana softly humming along, her voice barely audible over the music.

An air of grief filled the room, or maybe it was just me. I never thought this time would come so soon. That was my Nana. She was supposed to live forever. But I could tell forever was slipping away.

I wish I would have hugged my Nana tighter and longer that day. I was only home from college for the weekend, and it was time to say goodbye, but Thanksgiving was just three weeks away. “Don’t finish that puzzle without me!,” I joked, clinging to the belief that I would see her again soon. “Oh, I won’t!,” she said, lightheartedly.

She kept her promise.

I remember seeing the phone call from my mom come across my screen while in class. She must have forgotten my schedule again, I thought. And then the text came through: “Call me back when you can.” Blunt. Final. A period at the end. This wasn’t my mom’s usual tone. Something was wrong.

I stepped out of class and called her back. Nana was in the hospital again, and it wasn’t looking good. My sister was already in her car, making the 6 hour drive pick me up from college. I’d at least make it home to say goodbye.

Two hours later, my mom calls again. This time it was FaceTime.

“I’m sitting here with Nana,” my mom said with a wavering voice. “Her eyes are closed right now, but she is still here, and the doctors say she can still hear you. I’m holding her hand for you. Is there anything you want to say to her?”

I stared at the screen, at the stillness of her frail, sleeping body. Could she really hear me? I barely recognized the elderly woman in the hospital gown before me. I tried hard not to let my mother see me cry. I knew this was harder for her, and I wanted to be strong. But my efforts were in vain. Resisting my tears was futile.

A soft, broken “I love you, Nana.” was all I could muster up the strength to say, hoping my words could reach her.

An hour later, the final phone call came from my dad. Nana was gone.

I never made it home to say goodbye. The next time I saw her, I was placing a flower in her hands in her casket—not a real one, but one I crafted out of metal wire and pink tights in sixth grade, a Mother’s Day gift that she had kept all these years.

A piece of me would be with her forever, just as a piece of her is always with me. Her gold bracelet adorns my wrist every second of every day. I never take it off—not in the shower, not in bed, not for a single moment.

I piece together my own puzzles now, by myself, with my friends, my niece, remembering my times at the puzzle table with my Nana fondly. For a while after she passed though, I never wanted to see a puzzle again. That was our activity. It would never be the same.

In fact, the final puzzle we worked on together sat unfinished for weeks. A memory pressed in time. A portrait of love. A portrait of loss. It felt wrong to move the pieces without her there.

But Nana could never leave a puzzle unfinished. So one night, my sister and I returned to it, our hands trembling as my Nana’s did that final night together. Piece by piece, we filled the empty spaces. It almost felt like she was there, guiding us. And when the last fragment clicked into place I could almost hear her voice, soft and steady, “You finished it, girls.”

The puzzle now hangs framed in my childhood home. And the photo—the one I took that day while standing precariously on the dining room table—has become a cherished one that I return to again and again. I never ended up submitting the photo for that photography assignment, but I am so glad I took it. As the years pass, I look at this photo and am no longer flooded with the memories of that particular day, where I really noticed my Nana’s health decline, where I didn’t hold on to her as long as I wish I would have. I am no longer flooded with the memories of our virtual goodbye, dreading the fact that the world had pulled me too far away. I am no longer reminded of the grief of losing her.

Instead, it brings back much fonder memories:

sleepovers at Nana’s house where she would rub my back until I fell asleep;

diner breakfasts on Saturday mornings, begging her for quarters for the claw machines in the lobby;

driving around to yard sale after yard sale after yard sale after those diner breakfasts and acquiring even more toys (my parents always dreaded seeing what new treasures I would come home with after a day with Nana and Pap);

eating the Lipton soup that she would make me when I was sick, that I made her put ice cubes in because it was just toooooo hot;

playing rummy at the dining room table when we needed a break from all the puzzles;

making milkshakes, making mac and cheese, and making messes, but she never, ever got mad;

and so many more.

It’s hard to put into words how much my Nana meant to me, and what I would give to spend just one more day with her. It’s hard to put into words the joys of being loved by her—a woman who put all of her effort into being the best Nana.

If I was given ten thousand trillion words, it would not be enough. Words could never capture her love. But this photo says it all.

I love you, Nana. I miss you. And I hope I am making you proud.