SilentDawn’s review published on Letterboxd:
I remember watching her. In particular, I remember watching her watch the road. She'd sit on the end of the couch at attention: distant, but alert to each car or passerby. The joys of life intersecting at one specific point in an endless sea of interactions - the street by my house was a portal to a final curtain-call, and a canvas for reflection. She'd say, "there, there, there he is!" I've been waiting for him to come home." It wasn't him. Her husband, and my grandfather, died ten-years prior. She clung to fabrics of memories drifting past, and he was always in them, and he was always the one coming home. Floating up to the front of the house. A ghost saying hello.
Is it because she loved him? I know she did, even though he cheated and lied and smoked himself to death. I imagine she reverted back to the many occurrences of his car pulling into the driveway while she was setting the dinner-table. But mostly, it was because he was the other-half of a life. And it wasn't complete without him. She chose him, and their memories became my mother's, who passed them along to me. History, in many instances, is the feeling of the living-room couch rising up with your empty imprint as you leap off to greet someone you love.
My grandmother forgot everything. Her children, her house in Denver, Colorado, her (small) addiction to coin-slots. Everything.
Frieda was her name. And she was beautiful. Just like today.