I have an aunt who, while was never overtly mean to me, was definitely stern and was not very loving in general. I witnessed her being rude and outright violent with other people and family members but don’t recall her ever laying a hand on me. Maybe I’ve forgotten a pinch or swat by now but I do recall her mean faces or snippy remarks that left me justifiably wary of her.

I remember being regularly dragged along on her errands but one in particular is still burned in my hippocampus. She got dolled up with her perfectly applied cat eyeliner and puffy updo and we walked to an old, small house in a residential area in downtown Tucson, the “barrio” which housed tiny homes amongst the “mansions,” corner markets, and tamalerias just blocks from the high rise buildings – my favorite was the one that listed the time and temperature in lights at the very top. One day, decades ago, those lights turned off and never turned back on. I still look for it whenever I’m in town.

Anyway … we may have entered the house through a side entrance or we were guided through the clean but musty house to the back room that was decorated into some sort of office. I was glared into sitting quietly while my aunt visited with the ‘therapist’. He was no doctor but he was quiet and thoughtful and answered my aunt’s worries with patience. I was transfixed as he’d open little drawers to pull out dried, aromatic herbs and combine them into a worn cotton handkerchief so she could later make a tea to ease her troubles or cure any physical malady. Even then, I heard the words “witch doctor” but didn’t know enough to process that information.

During one of the visits, I pulled myself out of a bored haze just in time to focus on the conversation at the perfectly wrong moment. I heard him tell my aunt she had beautiful hair.

“It’s a wig.” I stated matter-of-factly.

I immediately knew I had fucked up. It wasn’t a wig but one of those hairpieces popular back then; used to add volume and height. Whatever. I do remember being immediately scared shitless when I saw her face. I don’t remember getting smacked but I do remember the scolding I got and her telling my beloved nana while I stood there in shame but knowing full well I had told the goddamn truth!

I remember an old black and white portrait of my aunt. She was angled slightly with her head tilted and turned back to face the camera. She was wearing an off the shoulder fur shrug and was sporting the cat eyeliner no one could have guessed would be all the rage again some 40 plus years later. Her hair was beautifully and perfectly coiffed into the same updo that got me into so much trouble on that hot summer day.

I used to stare at that picture with wonder when I was little. I marveled at the the glamour she exuded, cleverly hiding the meanness I could still somehow see in her eyes. The photo may be lost or may be tucked away somewhere but I doubt I will ever see that photo again. I hope I don’t because I don’t want to know how incorrectly I remember it.

In a thrift shop in Seattle, I wandered aimlessly though piles of other people’s memories while pretending I was in Hogwarts’ Room of Requirement when I was stopped cold by a bureau full of pictures and portraits. I felt so sad thinking of all the people now lost to the ages. Ironically, I felt compelled to take pictures of the pictures.

As I tackle the task of organizing my children’s pictures into photo albums that I hope will be treasured for at least generation or two, my heart aches when I imagine those same albums sitting in a shop someday meaning nothing to anyone. Or, maybe someone, somewhere is thinking about one of those pictures the way I still think about my Tia’s lost portrait.