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Stories We Tell at the End
By Stephanie Kemp









My mom had four stories that were on loop until she took the very last breath of her very best life.....(you might want to take at least the first two with a grain of salt):

1. “I learned to ride a horse before I could walk. I used to crawl out to the barn in the middle of the night and Lady would bow her head down so I could crawl up her mane on to her bare back and we would ride around under the moon until breakfast was ready or I had to go to stupid school.”

2. “They had to wake me up in the middle of the night because I was the only one with an arm small enough to save the foal. She was breech. And then she was beautiful.”

3. “I play golf twice a week……………..and garden every day.” (This one is suspect only  because she kept telling it even once she was unable to leave her hospice bed.)

4. “We are the luckiest people in the world.” (This one is unimpeachable.)

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Dear Maman,

Can I add one more thing to y/our story?

You left a disposable camera last time you came to see us. 

It’s a green Fuji film 24 exposure plastic clacker with a tiny, dirty lens.

I found it on the day you died (it was in the closet above where you kept your old Tretorns and new Adidas). I have been carrying it around with me ever since.

I always mean to develop it, but often forget I have it or just can’t let that much emotion or potential heart hurt into my day.

So it has been mostly living in my glove compartment, like a silent companion or shot gun rider holding the promise of the last things you wanted to remember…

The last things you tried to bring into focus, even as everything was fading.

That is some heavy baggage for a shitty throwaway camera (or a daughter) to have to carry.

But now it’s in France with me because I am going to finish the roll.

(Did you know that I am a Writer in Residence at a chateau in France, Maman? Do you know that? Oh I hope you can know that. Maybe it would make you feel better about me quitting the piano....Or that time I unfairly lost the spelling bee...Or the time you hosted that screening for my big acting debut in Get Shorty, only to learn with 200 of y/our closest friends and family that my head got cut off in editorial.)

So the other day, I woke up early and took your camera and I walked and walked and walked.

I chose the dirt road behind the church over the river route because it cut through a piece of land that looked just like the farm and because there were too many people choosing the river.  I wanted it just to be us. (But my god, would you love this river.)

I took pictures (or notes) of things I thought you might like to see:

A church that offers but doesn’t own...

Accidental flowers growing in the wrong season, but planted on purpose...

Fresh water everywhere, in every direction...

Reminding me to stop,
And think of the ocean.

A garden gnome and ceramic duck guarding the house while welcoming guests,

As a swan……

…….swans.

An empty field ready and waiting for your Brahman bulls…(I always knew you were never lying - at least about the Brahman bulls.)

A nice man in a tiny Citroen. I waved first, he waved back. (This might not be true, but we both waved…..and smiled.)

I had no way of knowing how many pictures were left on the roll because the numbers on the dial had worn off.

So I just kept going.

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Until there was one picture left. I could just make out a blurry 1 behind the exhausted plastic, warning me of and/or welcoming me to it’s finality.

I thought I had more.  

I wish I had more.

What if I waste it?

And then I saw it:

I bent down on what’s left of my shredded 56 1/2 year old knees to take a picture of a gloriously imperfect tree standing in front of a sun still trying to plan its day. It had gnarled bark and fairy tale moss and looked like it might be halfway down the road of life. Little balls of errant leaves invited Dr. Suess (or the me that lives under my lifelong hair) into the mix, while big branches protected little branches by placement, form or commitment.

Nature / Nurture, (always with, never versus).

It of course made me think of a tiny picture and poem:

If I was a tree,
this one would be me.

Right in the middle
of all I can be.
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Can you see it, Maman?

Can you see us?

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I will get the roll of film developed as soon as I get home.

I will hold onto whatever it was you were trying to capture.

And I will share it.

Even if it hurts or the pictures are blurry.

You were never the best picture taker, you know.

And I am not always the best sharer.

(But you would be proud of me.  And I am still so proud of you.)

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Oh, and one more thing? (This might always be a lie.)

I made some new friends here. You would love them.  

They are teaching me a lot of things - like how to unclench my fist and rediscover my adjectives.

And they can’t wait to see y/our pictures.


Je t’adore, Maman.

Sweet Dreams.

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ps.  I was a little sad that most of the pictures were opaque blurs, until I remembered that whole thing you taught me about quality not quantity. Your focus was on the ocean and your grandbabies (always true to form).

Thank you for showing up in that middle picture in the bottom.

I still believe in the best kinds of ghosts.

(My mom taught me that.)
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