MY GRANDMOTHER AT 100
MY GRANDMOTHER AT 100

For many years after my grandfather died, my grandmother continued to live in the house in Cupertino, California, that they had occupied together for over 40 years. Their house was an integral part of my childhood; it was where my siblings and I spent many afternoons and weekends eating Pringles, watching cartoons, shooting BB guns, and racing around their overgrown and amazingly productive jungle of a garden.

But my grandmother grew older, and she eventually moved in with my aunt. My grandparents’ house was left abandoned. It took on the air of a ghost town or a museum. Meanwhile, my grandmother turned 100 years old—then 101, then 102. She slept a lot, ate a lot of oranges and buttery pound cake, and was always occupied with whether or not she had given various family members their red envelope money.

I took photos of her. I missed her house. I missed my grandfather. I missed that part of my childhood.

20150307_grandmother_bec_1984.jpg
20150307_grandmother_bec_1998.jpg
20150307_grandmother_bec_2009.jpg
20150307_grandmother_bec_2023.jpg
20150307_grandmother_bec_2031.jpg
20150330_grandmother_2609.jpg
IMG_0864.jpg
IMG_1290.jpg
85230001.jpg
85230015.jpg
IMG_1293.jpg
85230017.jpg
IMG_1336.jpg
IMG_1316.jpg
85230008.jpg
IMG_1353.jpg
IMG_1952.jpg
IMG_1955.jpg
14350006.jpg
14350022.jpg
14350024.jpg
27030018.jpg
27400011.jpg
27400010.jpg
27400018.jpg
27400023.jpg
27410001.jpg
27400024.jpg
27400025.jpg
27410007.jpg
27410015.jpg