The Frame

By Dan de Souza

Christmas 2025

Digital swirls brought the frame to life.  “I pre-loaded some pictures on it, Grandma.  Just wait for it to boot up.  I chose a bunch of pictures from your old photo albums.  Lots with Mom and Uncle Charlie and Grandpa Frank.  I know you miss him. See” she pointed with a pressed nail, “see it’s AI”

She left her grandmother sitting in the recliner and went to the table by the residence window to set the frame, propping it on top of an unwrapped present so her grandmother could get a good view of the pictures.  “It’s better than the old one” she said over her shoulder,  “we can load pictures from the Internet. I can send you pictures from anywhere I am so you won’t be as lonely. Just give me a second and I will switch it to AI mode.” Martha reached behind the frame, pressing the button to bring the AI Agent to life. 

Grace could see her younger self in the smooth skin of her granddaughter, seventy years younger.  Seventy years.  She shook her head, pushing the button on her recliner, raising her legs high enough to keep the swelling from continuing its charge upward. 

Grace looked at her granddaughter with a smirk. “Won’t be lonely eh? I liked the old frame”.

 

“I don’t know Grandma, this may be better.  It will turn the pictures into three dimensions or add movement or music or something.  It really doesn’t matter” she readjusted the frame on the unwrapped package. “I will leave it here on the desk and you can watch them scroll past from your recliner.”  Martha returned from the desk  “Do you want me to get you ready for bed before I go?  We don’t need you sleeping in your chair on Christmas Eve.”

“It’s ok honey, I can manage.  You better get going, I’m sure you have plans tonight.”  She looked at Martha again, remembering when she might have had somewhere to go, someone with whom to share the evening. “Merry Christmas Martha and thank you for the frame.  It’s lovely, like you.  Don’t forget your present, it’s over there, under the frame” she pointed with a crooked finger to the unwrapped copy of Dicken’s A Christmas Carol.

“Oh Grandma, I love you.”  Martha, having already put on her coat and hat, came behind her Grandmother’s chair, bent down and wrapped her arms around the old woman’s shoulders, resting her chin on the top of her head.  “Merry Christmas.” 

Grace heard the door close behind her, her eyes landing on the present under the frame. “You forgot your…”  with a click she was gone.  “AI frame that animates pictures.”  She blew out through her nose, her eyes going to the frame that continued  its march to life.  “A waste of time.”  she harumphed.  “It’d be better if AI could reanimate me.”  She chuckled at her joke. 

Grace knew that she really should get up, push her walker into the bedroom and get ready for bed.   Her new pjs, a long standing family tradition on Christmas Eve, were ready and waiting for her, laid out on the bed where Martha had left them. “I’ll just rest a little, close my eyes for a bit and then I will get up and get ready for bed.”  She pushed the button on the recliner so she was almost lying flat, then made a final adjustment of the head rest so she could watch the photos on her new frame appear.  Her eyes returned to Dickens, his ghosts of Christmas past, present and future, under wrap, unheeded, supporting the frame.

Martha thought about the Christmas Eves of the past.  The preparation of gifts, of food, of fresh bedding for visitors, of neighbors dropping by.  At the time it seemed like so much work, so tired from the preparation that she barely had time to enjoy Christmas.  A picture of Frank, silver carving knife and fork in hand, standing behind the turkey, filled the frame.  She could feel herself drifting off, her blinking getting longer and longer.  She forced herself to look at the frame.  Another of Frank, facing the camera, her back to the lens. “We are dancing.” she murmurs.  She hears the music and sings along, “Have yourself a merry little Christmas.”  Grace moves her feet to the music, feels Frank’s hand on her back.  

She wills herself to stay awake, opening her eyes to see herself, standing in their old kitchen, the one with the black and white checkered floor, holding Charlie. She holds the baby in her arms, little Charlie’s face nuzzles her cheek.  She reaches up to touch her cheek, feeling the warmth of his baby’s breath on her face. Grace opens her eyes wider as  a new picture emerges.  This one of Frank sitting at the other end of the Christmas table in his white shirt, thin black tie, wire rimmed glasses. It must be 1965.  She looks at her feet, raised in the recliner.  She’s wearing the heels she loved so much, thinking of the Beckers shoes on main street.  She has on her nylons, her pleated black skirt, the white blouse she loves to wear on special occasions. She looks at her hands, her thirty something hands, wrinkle free, thin, long and beautiful.  She must have done her nails this afternoon. She opens and closes her now supple, useful  hands. Her skin, pure, no longer translucent.   “The turkey must be done” she whispers, her eyes closed, the aroma filling the room. The children are in the other room.  Charlie and Marie, giggling, playing with the toys they unwrapped this morning.

Grace sighs, shifting in her chair.  It is the most pleasant dream.  She opens her eyes wider, arching her brows, to prove to herself that she is awake; realizing it is indeed the most pleasant reality. 

Memories begin to  arrive quickly, like passengers disembarking at a busy station.  The family on top of the toboggan hill across the street from the house.  Frank pushes the children to get them started.  The cold wind making her eyes water. Frank lifts Marie onto his shoulders so she can place the star on top of the tree. It must be 1970,  Appledale Road.  Her mother, behind the camera taking the annual family portrait, winks at her.  She feels herself sitting on the floor, smoothing her skirt before Charlie climbs into her lap, her feet crossed behind her, her back straight and strong.  Charlie’s flannel PJs, warm and soft, she bends to kiss the top of his head, his freshly washed hair, still wet. Her fingers interlace around his soft little belly. The fire behind her warms her back.

 

Dinners and toboggans, hugs and kisses, Frank, her mother, the children.  They are speeding past, rushing past as fast as her life has fled. The beauty, the love, the kindness seem to form around her, filling her little suite with memory, with life. She feels like she may lose herself, may never return, wondering if she really wants to return. 

“It’s too much,” she whispers, “Too much.” She reaches for the remote her granddaughter has left beside her on the table. The pictures begin to loop again. Grace, with the precision of a sniper, points the remote directly at the frame until the first picture appears, then presses the pause button.  Her gnarled thumb hovers above the fast forward button.  “What memory?  What to choose?” Slowly she presses down, the frame responding, moving picture by picture, frame by frame, as she presses, trying to decide what to remember, what to relive.  What ghost to inform her present, which one to create her future? 

She hits pause.

Frank, tall, broad shouldered, smelling of the cologne he always wore.  The first dance at the Kiwanis Hall.  The corsage he gave her, the feel of his hand on the small of her back.  The band plays Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.  She feels them gliding to the music, her cheek resting on his chest, loving what she knows is about to arrive.