My grandmother’s name is Alla. Recently she talks to me about her future funerals: how she wants to be buried, what monument we should install. We should put in her hand a napkin with the roundel, which her husband gave to her many years ago, when they were young. Her photo is on the one side of the roundel, his — on the other. He presented this lovely souvenir, when he went in the navy.
Grandmother buried him thirty years ago in Uzbekistan, left the place forever and never get married again. She wants exactly the same memorial on her grave as she chose for her husband. The memory and warm feelings for him are alive, and even her death she wants to connect with him.
I don’t remember my grandfather at all, we met only once. But owing to our talks with granny now I have my own memories of him, now I feel love and tenderness for him too like she does.
Working on this project I can’t help but start asking questions for myself: when does a person actually die? What does remain after someone’s death? At what moment does memory about a person transfer to collective memory and personalization decompose, dissolve in it?