My grandmother was standing by the kitchen window in my first apartment drinking coffee in the morning. My hanging houseplants framed her face perfectly. Her 87-year-old hands were shaky and worn out and beautiful. The light from the large window illuminated the crevices in her face. This is the only time she would attempt the 3 flights of stairs. It was early October in San Francisco, and she was sweating. Her white hair was starting to flatten, and her piercing blue eyes were looking out at Golden Gate Park. I wish I had documented this moment. Her age on her face and her hands that looked like my mom’s hands that look like my hands.