two frames

I pass them every day.

Two black and white portraits sit by the stairwell, the spine of the house. One above the other. My grandmother on top, looking straight ahead. Church hat with soft organza details. Pearls resting on her collarbones. Composed. Certain. Below her, my grandfather. Turned toward the garden at their home with a slight smile. Reaching upward in his work shirt that he still wears years after retirement. At ease. Present. Together and separate. Exactly as they are.

I asked my cousin Rebecca to photograph them because I wanted to see them clearly. Not as symbols. As people. My grandmother wanted to be dressed formally. She sat outside on the veranda of the house in Spanish Town they have owned for more than fifty years. She carries seriousness. Responsibility. A belief in propriety that shaped our family. Dinner at the table. Clothes sewn by hand. Standards held tight. When she laughs, it feels rare and generous. Like light breaking through. My grandfather is the opposite energy. Quiet joy. Deep integrity. A man who built homes. Who worked through disability. Who stayed curious, dignified. Who asks who in the family is working on what, even now. Who believes everyone should live into their highest purpose.

The two of them have always been a study in contrast. Stillness and motion. Restraint and warmth. But they share the same foundation. A belief in building something that lasts. In claiming land. In holding ground. In making room for the lives that would follow. Their strength together made so much possible. The made us, a constellation.

I placed their portraits by the stairs on purpose. Two individuals. Fully themselves. Side by side. They have built a life that will outlast them. I wanted to honor that. The union. And the people within it.

More soon,

L