At the end of 2018, I faced a situation in which my grandfather stopped walking. He needed daily care, which included often not the most pleasant processes for me at that time.
I sat on the couch, flipping through my old Facebook photos, and waited impatiently for Grandpa to finish his dinner. One of my posts from mid-2016 caught my attention.
"Get out of here with your fucking picture!" That's enough! Go outside! Shoot live people! Leave me alone already, can't you see? There's nothing in me anymore! Nothing! Nothing left of the man...
Making a grimace of displeasure, Grandpa groped for his rusty cane and tried to get out of bed. "Help me!" I hear a hoarse voice. I give him my hand in silence and try to figure out where he wants to go.
"Do you remember when we went to pick raspberries in the swamp near the forest, and you almost fell into the bog?" Do you remember when I gave you my hand, laughing? And you were standing knee-deep in mud and crying, apparently afraid of drowning. Remember? Nothing...let go, I don't want to go anywhere... You know what's the same way, I once gave you a hand to pull you out of the quagmire, and then I put you on my shoulders and carried you. How old were you?" Five? Maybe six? I can't even remember...And now, looking far away from the child's hand in mine, I see the same story, only in reverse. Do you hear me? That's how it all turned out...Strange, isn't it?"
The feelings after reading it resulted in a series of self-portraits with my grandfather. For one week, I took one photo every day, which, I think, reflects my entire attitude to this situation
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