by Donna Salli | Feb 10, 2025 | Blogs
I’m the firstborn in my family. In this sweet photo, taken at our grandparents’ farm, I’m with my little brother, Robbie. Our grandmother, whom we called Mummu, did the milking—you can see the milk can she’d left to drain, leaning against the house. Our mother liked to tell a story. Robbie didn’t begin to talk as early as most children do. He’d make grunting sounds, in the rhythms and tone of a request. Mom would say, “What do you need, Robbie?” and I would jump in, translating. “He wants a cookie.” Or “He needs a drink of water.” Robbie didn’t have to talk, and he didn’t need to “do.” I saw myself as my brother’s keeper, and I would jump in and help. I had what seems to me, even now, a natural impulse to care for him. The older I’ve gotten, the more complicated that idea has become. Rob and I developed very different adult perspectives and beliefs, leaving me to wonder if I’m still my brother’s keeper.
by Donna Salli | Feb 20, 2018 | Blogs
Taping a plastic guard over your eye is a trip, in that 1960s, mind-altering sense. You’re disoriented, more aware of your body, and strangely more daring. I suppose if I wanted a polished authorial image, I wouldn’t show you the picture at the top of this post. But it’s truthfully me. I had eye surgery a couple weeks ago to implant a new lens. My husband took the photo after we got home. I was sleepy and had put the guard on to protect my eye if I dozed off. I love everything about this photo! I’m groggy from anesthesia, a bit goofy-looking. What I love most is that I’m out-of-focus, and it’s the colorful lap throw over the back of the sofa that anchors the image. The picture is grainy, sudden, but it captures my experience of life. I live blurred, on a border. On one side is what my eyes see, on the other what I sense. Two kinds of seeing, and I’m not sure which is clearer.
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