When he died, I lost not only Grandpa, but his world.
Grandma sealed the darkroom.
Mother told me my tears were selfish, but I heard my parents discussing it in low tones late at night. Their bedroom door spilled a copper square while Dad rumbled, “There’s nothing to worry about. Your mother won’t let anyone in the darkroom.”
Mother’s taut, high voice carried across the hall. “Imogene’s going to look someday. It’s human nature. And she won’t understand.”