Grandma Lauretta Jean

When I look in the mirror, there is more than just my face staring back. The spitting image of my grandmother, Lauretta Jean, and my father, Darrell, I see them in my smile, my eyes, my gaze. I have the voice of my mother, proof she contributed to creating me, despite my uncanny likeness.

As far as families go, we do them up big in mine. Mum is seven of ten siblings, dad is seventeen of eighteen. Despite being their only child, our home was always filled with family and I was never lacking company from cousins and aunts and uncles.

I also look like Aunt Laura, who I also share a name with. We’re both Janes. I didn’t love being called Sarah Jane as a kid, but I grew to love the sound of my gram calling it out from across a room. No matter how many children she had or how many grandchildren were in the room she always knew us by name.

Some of my greatest memories are of hearing the stories of the lives my parents and grandparents led before I was born. I would devour old photo albums, ask a million questions, and memorize their fascinating nuances.

My two families were so different, but I come from great histories. The stories of the nicknames my Pip had for my Mim, of 12 people sharing two bathrooms, of my dad being mostly raised by his older sisters because he was the second youngest. How my parents met as teenagers, the stories of their times at the local pool. The stories fill me with love.

Family is everything to me.

I’m the mum to one incredible human. It’s been a joy sharing the stories of our family histories with my son. Having photographic proof of their lives and stories is very important to me. How else would he see that he has the same hands as his great-grandmother and that he didn’t get his height from my side of the family?

When I close my eyes, I remember her soft hands and how she always smelled like Chantilly perfume. The times I spent the weekend with her baking. We would venture to the A&P to get the supplies together, I proudly helped her carry everything home. She always let me measure the flour. I remember the cherry cheer-ups she made just for me. How she called out with delight, “Sarah Jane, bring that baby over here!” when I brought Makhi to see her for the first time. And the bittersweetness of holding her hand as we said goodbye for the last time.

Of the millions of moments I shared with my grandparents, the only visual memories of being with them that remain are these six pictures. These frozen moments take me back to those rooms, their embrace, their laughter, I am transported right next to them again. One day I’ll get to share these with my own grandchildren.

Introducing you to your future generations is why photography is so important to me. You, your real life, your history, your beauty should all have proof and documentation. So that one an inquisitive child will gaze at her likeness in your face. We should leave these memories as gifts.