It’s hard to explain what it’s like in the darkroom with Sam. It’s not the same as being there with you or with Deb. When Sam and I are working, the quality of the silence between us is electric. At any given moment, I can sense what he’s doing; it feeds my own work in ways that are difficult to describe. I quit my pills years ago, but sometimes the two of us stay up all night developing prints, powered only by each other’s company—until Sam’s clock rings for him to catch the sunrise, and I rush off to be home in time for breakfast with you.

Sam’s idea to alternate hospital photos with street shots was so much better than giving a wall to each, I was embarrassed that I hadn’t thought of it myself. Combining them this way erases the separation that the outside world imposes between sick and well. But Squirrel, it feels so odd showing portraits of your grandparents when I have none of you! Of all the photos I’ve taken with my mental camera, moments captured and then stored in my memory, the one I love most is from last spring in the backstage dressing room long after the final curtain call: you are still in your Emily costume, your Emily makeup half removed, your eyes ablaze, your face caught between the world you’re leaving and the world you are returning to.

I could tell you were disappointed that none of the prints we made were in the show. You wouldn’t admit it, wouldn’t even acknowledge the question when I pulled you aside to ask. Since you wouldn’t let me explain then, I’ll explain now: one day those beautiful images will be seen, but when I discovered that my silly idea about sick photos was correct, this show fell into place. I hadn’t noticed I’d stopped writing titles until I looked through the work all at once. My titles only ever supply a general description (a strong image shouldn’t need more than that), but when I was sick, even that became a burden.

Selfishly, I’m glad you were there, disappointed or not. Without you to guide your grandparents, I’m sure they would have stayed at that wobbly table in their best church clothes, nervously sipping tea from one of Sam’s chipped mugs while darting shy glances at the walls. It was so strange and lovely to see them holding hands as they moved between photographs, these two private people who rarely touch at home and never in public. Thank you.

I know that their willingness to come to the café should have been enough, but I was hoping for more than a polite “nice” from behind their Sunday-church smiles. And so, Squirrel, I suppose this show disappointed you and me both. What I want from your grandparents is as childish and unrealistic as a girl wishing her cat were a pony, but that doesn’t stop me from wanting it anyway.