Saturday, 1 December 2018
Where were you?
I returned to England as my brother had died. He was penniless and I found out that he had been out of work for some time with a failing heart and lungs riddled with cancer. He had one skill apart from bullying me as I was two years younger than him and I don't think he ever forgave me for breast feeding with our mother. Growing up and being told to go outside and play together was a harsh punishment for me. He didn't like me tagging along with his friends and would punch me or push me in the stinging nettles by the path that led to the woods. Once I came home with a broken wrist after falling from a tree that I climbed. My mother's first reaction was "Did your brother do that to you?", so I said "No". I don't think she believed me. So following advice of his death I sifted through what possessions of his that were left. Virtually nothing remained but evidence of his skill as a photographer. Boxes and boxes of film and prints; so I spent time going through them selecting some for myself and some for his ex-wife who said she would like some memories too despite divorcing him some years prior. With that his sixty-five years of life were gone; obliterated and forgotten whist I returned to my home country the other side of the world with photographs of everything and everyone but him.
Where were you my friend
When I needed a brother?
Not one photograph
Image found at https://petapixel.com/2015/02/22/americas-first-female-photojournalist-jessie-tarbox-beals-with-her-cameras/
Yes, this story is based on fact