SandScript 2020

Frank Cortes
even when he stooped low, only his smile
and chin would be visible in the photos. I
recognized most of them from Dad’s side
of the family—strangers to me except for
funerals and infrequent Christmas holidays
when the dinner was served at Phil’s largerthan-anyone-else’s
home. If Uncle Phil cared
enough to send pictures to Grandma, why
wasn’t one of his kids here, instead of me,
caring for Grandma?
Continuing my rummaging, I
stopped at two photos of Grandma,
her sister, Elisabet, and her brother-inlaw,
Randall, and set the journal on the
overturned milk crate. Her love for her
sister was what had brought Grandma to
Arizona—first to help Elisabet take care
of her terminally ill husband, and then, at
his passing, to take care of her sister. My
parents were mad at Grandma for selling
her house in Ohio, and squandering her
money helping Elisabet with medical bills
and overdue property taxes on the trailer.
I guess they thought the proceeds should
have been their inheritance.
The first photograph was of
Grandma, Elisabet, and Randall in front
of a Mexican-style restaurant that had a
matador and bull mural painted on the
Forgotten
Photograph
outside stucco wall. The two women were
standing behind the slumped man in the
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