At first there was only silence. Then came the muffled, steady beeps, followed by loud, erratic pacing. The sudden sound woke me from a nap I do not remember taking. I felt weaker than ever. Barely finding the strength to sit up, I squinted at the blinding lights. Soon, an unfamiliar sight appeared. I found myself in a rather small room, with few windows. To my left was a vast trolley filled with endless haphazard substances I knew nothing about. A sudden pain in my right arm caused me to turn. It was a needle, connected to an infusion I seemed to be receiving. In the background I finally saw the reason I woke up so abruptly – a heart rate monitor, which showed my heartbeat as stable again. By then I had realized I was in a hospital, but I could not remember why. As I was racking every gyrus and sulcus in hopes of finding my answer, a nurse entered the room. I could tell she was stunned by seeing me awake; her widened eyes and dropped jaw spoke for themselves. She rushed out of the room but soon came back. This time, she was not alone. A tall, burly man stood beside the nurse, making her already petite figure seem even tinier. The man had a blank expression. He sat down on a chair next to my bed and ordered the nurse to leave the room. She did as she was told, leaving the man and me alone. After a few moments of silence, the man finally spoke and started asking me questions about a moment unbeknownst to me. He said it was important – the moment that everything changed – but every time I try to reach for it, I fail. It is like a locked door I do not have the key for. The only thing I can do is peep through the keyhole, where only a glimpse of a smile can be seen. It was calm. Out of place among all the darkness – and fear.
Many years have passed since that day – ten, to be exact – yet the door still remains tightly locked. I have tried finding answers, remembering, and undergoing various treatments. But nothing ever worked. The man from the hospital did not help much either – after realizing I could not remember – he vanished, but not before saying, “Certain doors remain locked because we choose not to enter.” Waving the white flag seemed like the mercy I deeply needed. And yet, I could not. Why…you ask? That smile, of course. It was my first thought in the morning and last in the evening. I was the fly caught in its web – both helpless and clueless about the fate which awaited me. Will it eventually consume me or help me become resilient? Little did I know, the answer had actually been right under my nose the entire time…I was simply too lost to see it.
While I was going through the mail one day, an envelope stood out. It was plain, old, and unmarked. I almost threw it in the trash, when I saw a black liquid had appeared on my finger. “Strange. I do not remember using ink to write any letters today.”, I thought to myself. As I turned the envelope, my body froze. “Go here.” – were the words written with scrawny handwriting. Under the haunting words an address was written. One I could not recognize. My hands trembled as I anxiously tore the envelope open. Inside was a single photograph. Its edges were worn out, with rips in almost every nook. Despite the photo’s mangled state, I could clearly see a person staring back at me – smiling. Moments later, my heart sank. This whole time I thought the smile had belonged to someone else. I was wrong. The person in the photograph was me. But not the me I see in the mirror every day. Not the exhausted, uneasy, indifferent version I have become since the incident. This smile belonged to someone else. Someone I had long forgotten I could be. Someone far more courageous, undaunted. Though deep down, beneath this strange inquiry, I knew it had to be me. I felt it.
In the photograph, I was standing in an unfamiliar room – a basement perhaps – judging by its dim lights. I took a moment to think, taking in every little detail the background had to offer. The only thing that stood out was a bookshelf. Thinking this was odd, I was sure it was a place I had never...or so I thought. After turning the photo around, I saw a date written on it. But it was not just a date, it was the 15th of October – today’s date. I could feel my heartbeat increasing as I read the year it was taken. At this point, my entire body resembled a racing track, as sweat and shivers fought for their place. The year written on the photograph was 2000 – exactly 10 years ago today. It seemed as though the photograph was a map, guiding me toward an exploration long overdue. Towards something I needed to remember. Because if I do not, it will always find its way back into my life. I held the photograph tightly against my chest, feeling the weight of previous years creating a heavy burden. Luckily, that distant yet also familiar smile, now told me I was not lost. I just needed to find my way.
Seconds later I found myself in my car, blindly driving toward the unknown address. Will my ignorance finally come to an end after all these years? For the first time in a while I felt hopeful again. Every second a new thought passed through my brain – like a car speeding down the open highway. After a 30-minute drive, I finally arrived at the location. The sight I saw was not what I had expected. Before me stood an old family home. Despite its dilapidated state, I could tell the home was once deeply cared for. It was a white two-story house with a bay window overlooking the big front porch. The garden had a variety of flowers, which were now so overgrown they almost covered the entire front porch. Tall trees which surrounded the house gently framed its windows with branches like it was planned. While taking in what I was seeing, a peculiar feeling overcame me. It was bittersweet – and strange – to say the least. Why was I feeling like this when I had never been here before? After gathering the courage to continue further, my hand reached for the door handle. The door slowly creaked open, revealing a spacious living room and kitchen area. Even though the walls were dirty and mouldy, I knew that beneath remained a calming peachy colour. To my right were stairs which led up and down. Since I had previously assumed the room in the picture was a basement, my first instinct was to go down. The stairs creaked after every step, slowly increasing my fear of what I was about to discover. As I went further down, the air felt stuffier and the sunlight faded. In a rush I did not think to bring a flashlight – that was a decision I now started to regret. I reached the bottom of the stairs where another door awaited me. I took a deep breath in hopes of calming myself before advancing, but I was interrupted. I jumped letting out a shocked gasp as the door opened by itself. The air coming from the room felt different. It felt like fear. The same fear I felt when I woke up in the hospital all those years ago. Unable to move for a moment, I waited for my eyes to adapt to the darkness. Soon, a clearer picture presented itself. On the floor I could see rusty screws which must have loosened from the door’s hinges, explaining it opening on its own. Shivers ran down my spine as I saw what stood right in the middle of the room; a bed with medical equipment attached to it. An uneasy feeling overcame me. My mind was yelling at me to leave, but my body stood frozen. Still standing in place, my eyes rapidly analyzed the entire room. The right side was mostly empty, but the left side – which the bed was facing – seemed familiar. In that moment I realised this was the place I had seen in the photograph. I once stood in front of that oddly placed bookshelf. Finally finding the strength to move, I took the photograph out of my pocket and positioned myself in the exact place it was taken.
Suddenly, flashbacks ran through my mind like unexpected hail during the hottest summer days. My chest tightened as I tried to remember and combine every little flashback into one. I collapsed to my knees as I started putting the pieces back together. A single tear had fallen down my face – this was once my home. I used to live here. But I was not alone. I lived with my grandmother. She took me in when nobody else cared, never asking for anything in return. I do not know who I would have become without her. Over the years, she became far more than a grandmother. She was the one who calmed me when the world felt cruel, the warmth that kept me safe, and the person I tried to be when I lost myself. In her effortless way, she showed me courage without noise, and love without weakness. However, old age does not give out free passes. Soon, my grandmother got diagnosed with untreatable cancer. The time she had left was very limited. My whole world came crashing down in an instant. In hopes of prolonging her life, the doctors wanted to keep her in the hospital. She refused. I was furious. But as always, she calmed me down and whispered in her raspy voice; “Dearest, we both know what awaits me. I would rather spend the time I have left at home. With you.” A weak smiled appeared on her face, while tears came streaming down mine. “Do not cry - smile. Be grateful we were still given time. Smile, if not for yourself, for me.” – she said. I reluctantly accepted her decision. That day I asked the doctors how I could make her safe – and comfortable – at home. They advised me to buy a hospital bed, along with other medical equipment which could help in taking care of her. I did as I was told. Since there was not enough space in grandmother’s bedroom, I had to set the equipment up in our most spacious room – the basement.
My grandmother loved taking walks beneath the shining sun. Sadly, this was something she would soon not be able to do anymore. In the basement the sun would light up only the middle of the room. This is why I put her bed there. I had hoped a part of her would feel the sun hitting her face, causing a sense of normality; a sense of peace. Next to her bed I set up a heart rate monitor, an infusion, as well as a trolley containing her medicine. I painted the walls a peachy colour, since her favourite fruits were peaches. I decorated them with her favourite flowers - white roses. My grandmother never liked watching TV. Instead, she would sit and reread old romance novels from her youth, never getting bored of them. I organized all her books in a bookshelf in front of her bed, wanting her to always see what she loved – even if she could not read the books herself.
Eventually, she came back from the hospital and moved into the room. Every day, I would sit by her side and talk with her the moment I got home from work. In the evenings, I would read to her until she fell asleep. And in the mornings when she would wake up, I was still by her side, making sure a warm smile was the first thing she laid eyes on. Every time she would smile back. Knowing I made her happy made me happy. However, that unique smile of hers had gotten weaker with every waking sunrise. I noticed, yet told myself differently.
On October 15th I went to the store to buy groceries. Accidentally, I found myself in the electronics aisle – that was the result of my occasional zone outs. There, I saw a camera, which I decided to buy since my grandmother and I never owned a modern one. I brought it home, immediately showing it to my grandmother. She thought it was fascinating, much easier to use than the ones she was used to. Because of this, she wanted to be the first person to take the first ever picture on our camera. It was supposed to be the first picture out of many more to come – we agreed on that. She told me to stand in front of the bookshelf so she could capture the things she loved most in one frame. Before taking the picture I remember her telling me to smile as wide as I could. I genuinely did – I was happy in that moment. As the flash went off, fluctuating beeps suddenly echoed throughout the room. They were followed by a loud thump – the camera falling to the floor. My eyes had not yet adjusted to the darker room due to the prior flash. But they did not need to. I knew what had happened, I did not need to see in order to know. In a way, it was a blessing; my last memory of her would be joy shining off of her face as she took both her first and last picture. Instinctively, I ran, wanting to be by her side. In the process I remember tripping just before silence ensued.
Coming back to reality, loud silence filled the room. Only this time, I was not confused nor weak. I felt stronger than ever. Ignorance was replaced by clarity, and fear with warmth. The familiar warmth made my heart ache but feel whole again. That smile was a reminder. It was words she had left behind, engraved into my brain like her name on a tombstone. She was asking me to live, feel, and, of course, smile. By taking that photograph, she helped me survive myself. Today, on the 15th of October 2010, I can confidently say that for the first time since waking up in the hospital bed, I felt serene.