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I couldn’t believe I was home. I pulled Mom’s camera out of my backpack in the bed of Grandma’s truck and carried it with me. The dirt under my feet welcomed me, yielding as my weight pushed into the clay. I walked up to Grandma’s gate and took it all in, breathing the deepest breath I could, absorbing the comforts beneath the mountains. I snapped a picture of Grandma’s house: the front walkway, the white mailbox with GALLUP INDEPENDENT written on its side, and Zoe, her bottom teeth protruding from her mouth.

I went back to the truck and woke Grandma from her deep sleep. I strapped her purse on one shoulder and held her hand all the way to the entrance to steady her gait. The door opened easily.

“Grandma, I’ve told you to make sure to lock the door before you leave. What if somebody tried to break in while you were gone?” I was nervous, looking around every corner of the house for whatever squatter had taken up residence.

“That is the city in you talking, dear.” Grandma let out a big sigh. “Around here, people know better than to steal from an old lady. Especially me.” She walked into the kitchen, filled a pot with water and Navajo tea, and lit the stove pilot. “Get me that big pot down and take that mutton from the icebox. I’m making you a welcome home feast.”

The broth boiled and hissed, steam coiling up from the corn and meat. Grandma and I sat at the kitchen table drinking our hot tea. It reminded me of how wonderful it was to be a child again, to be here with Grandma, without the weight of the city upon my shoulders. I wanted to stay forever in these walls, at the bottom of the mountain, for as long as I lived.

“You really have grown. Look at you.” Grandma held onto my forearm.

“Grandma, you see me all the time,” I said.

“But not here. In this house, I only remember you as a little girl. And seeing you here, sitting at the table with me, just makes me realize how many years have slipped by. What are your plans? When does school start?”

“I don’t think I’m going to go to school right now.” I was afraid to look at her. “I think I’ll stay here with you for a semester before I go back. I just need a break.”

There was an awkward silence.

“You’re not staying here, Rita.” Grandma took a sip of her tea. “You’re going to school just like you planned. Aren’t you going to California? Aren’t you going to study your picture-taking? That’s what I always thought you wanted.”

“I didn’t accept the scholarship, Grandma. Not the one in California.” I’d thought Mom would still be alive. Now that she was gone, I honestly didn’t know what I was going to do. “I’m supposed to start in Albuquerque in the fall.”

“When was all this decided?” Grandma looked disappointed.

“When Mom was getting real sick. I didn’t want to be too far from her in case something happened. I wouldn’t be able to afford to come back from California. But I guess that doesn’t matter now. It’s done. And I’ll be closer to you, too, Grandma. I’ll be closer to home.”

The only things that could be heard were the sizzle of the liquid on the stove and the ticking of Grandma’s scarecrow clock, his arm hitched up on an aging yellow stalk of corn. I could feel that scarecrow looking down on me from the wall, as if barely able to recognize my face after ten years away. I looked at the table, at Grandma’s beautiful hands, the soft skin now draped and dotted with age. Her jawline remained straight and refined; her hair was still perfect, coiled into pin curls. She sat with her hands folded, her eyes closed as if in prayer. I reached for the Hasselblad on the chair at my side and sat it on the table, pulling out wide. My finger pressed the shutter, capturing the moment, the memory forever fused onto film. The click opened her eyes.

“You and that camera.” She laughed. “Do me a favor and go into my closet and pull out the trunk. I think it’s time.”

“Time for what?”

“Time to show you.”

Grandma’s closet was just as I remembered it: handmade dresses on quilted hangers and boxes of sewing patterns. Even my hiding spot was intact, with Grandma’s brown leather train case serving as my seat in the corner. As I pulled down worn boxes and scuffed shoes, I came to a green trunk with brass corners and a thick leather handle. I had to use all the leverage I had to get it out of the closet. Whatever was inside was hefty. Memories, maybe.

Grandma sat on the bed opposite me. Her fragile hands opened the trunk, releasing a million bright speckles of dust into the light of her window. Inside, there were boxes, notebooks and photo albums, pictures randomly escaping from book covers. On top, there was a picture of Grandpa smiling, his eyes squinting at the camera, the single dimple on his cheek that I remembered from his light. He was handsome in his army uniform, pressed and crisp, every hair in place. He stood by a giant shelf of shiny bottles and containers. Grandma took the photo out and stared at it for almost a whole minute before she laid it on her nightstand.

There must have been a thousand photographs in that trunk. There were some early photos of relatives that were gone long before I ever came into this world. They wore woven dresses and handmade shirts and pants. Their hair was groomed into tight buns and wrapped with sturdy woolen ties.

“That is your great-great-grandfather and great-greatgrandmother,” Grandma explained. “That was my grandma and grandpa. Oh, look at them. They were always so happy together. They would spend hours out on the mesas with their herd of sheep and goats. They had a beautiful garden in Lukachukai, with lots of corn and beans and pumpkins. They were never apart from each other. When your great-great-grandpa died after a sickness, an infection in his lungs, your great-great-grandma went with him three days later. I remember she explained to me in Navajo that she hoped he had taken her lungs with him too because she no longer wanted to breathe in this world. She cried after him.”