My grandfather's photograph

ON the shelf in my living room rests a photograph of my grandfather. He sits beside me, wearing a teal polo shirt and a white cardigan while I am wearing a sailor's outfit, a large collar with a dark blue tie. I must have been four or five at the time because as I look at the photograph, I can see my son's image in myself. He is now five years old. But what Roland Barthes calls the punctum in a photograph, one that provokes a more intense and personal reaction, is not the charming little boy staring at a camera he does not understand, or the refined clothing of the man beside him. It is the smile that emanates from the man of about 60, sharing a moment with his first grandchild. Its radiance and joy fill the frame, like the flash of a camera in a dark room.

I remember the last night I kept him company. It was on his deathbed. The hospital suite was spacious. Papito, as we called him, had a private room where he would be closely monitored by doctors and nurses. I slept on the single seater La-Z-Boy recliner in the receiving area.