In my 81 years of existence I have no concept of what living alone, getting a divorce or being single might be.
I can add that I never tell mother-in-law jokes because my mother-in-law was always far away, and when she came on visits, she was most pleasant.
My Rosemary’s mother-in-law loved her. My mother lived with us from 1970 until 1972 in Mexico City when she died. She kept telling me to treat Rosemary well as, “Alex, she adores you. You are a lucky man.”
As a portrait photographer, seeing all the framed photographs of my family on the wall or remembering the photographs of my mother in our family album, make me think that the memory of a person’s face, voice and smell are paralleled by the objects they owned and touched. I can say the same of the plants in the garden that I shared with Rosemary.
Both Rosemary and my mother had a thing for knives. The large Mexican made a stainless steel one with the brand name “Barrilito”, or little barrel, was the only one my mother ever used. The serrated knife was Rosemary’s opinion (she was right) that you never had to sharpen them.
And so when I see these two knives in my wooden knife holder I think of the two. I smile and then feel sad.
When I see my youngest daughter Hilary it is no different from seeing the two knives. Somehow she looks like both my mother and Rosemary.