![]() ![]() The images were both predictable and surprising – reinforcing everything I knew about who my stepfather was, while also showing me more. Jeff had captured her from every angle.įinding these photos, even the awkward feet ones, brought me comfort. I found a series of my mother painting wildflowers at their favorite lake in Maine. Others of his cats snuggled up against her. Images of her petting Jeff’s cats, which she insisted she didn’t care about. The more I looked, the more I found sweet moments of my mother. She had presumably asked Jeff to photograph her so she could decide what to wear, and he obliged. ![]() I found image after image of my mother, standing in their kitchen or bedroom, posing in different outfits. Was Jeff – our curmudgeon who spent his free time reading Civil War tomes – taking selfies in the hospital? I kept going. But Jeff was gone, and I wanted more, so I kept looking.Īmong accidental screengrabs, I found photos he took while lying down. As I flipped through, I saw images that mostly seemed to have been taken inadvertently, like closeups of his feet. Jeff was not much of a photographer, and his photos proved it. A few months after my stepfather died, I stumbled upon the Photos app on his old iPad. ![]()
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