Photographs

January 5, 2018

Last night, I was looking around my bedroom, my most favorite room in the house. Always the safe spot, the cushion of love, the untouchable cavern which kept the outside strife of the world at arm’s length. Our retreat from it all. 

Although my husband died in our home, this sense of security and sanctuary remains, leaked into the walls through almost 40 years of life here. Where the babies were made and grew up, bouncing on the bed with excitement, snuggling in when they were scared or lonely, a family bed that spanned three generations. The shelves with books and candles and artsy little pieces tumbled together. Dozens of photo albums. 

The room is full of photographs, black and white, color too. I see my grandmother, my parents, my sister, nieces and nephew. My children and their friends. And of course, the pets, dog after dog, who filled our lives and eventually broke our hearts as they went before us. 

And then there are the pictures of me and Michael. As individuals, as a pair, with the kids and the pets, inside and out, wintry and summery and everything that lies between. The homey ones and the magical vacations. So much wondrous joy.

And I realized that I’ll never have a new picture of Michael again. His history is played out and as I move forward, aging along with my children and their children, he is forever frozen in time. Why this was stunning, I truly cannot say, but it was. I felt a powerful wave of sadness, the tidal kind that makes you wonder if you’ll be able to stand up from the bed and step into the next room.

I am trying to puzzle my way through this particular sense of an emptier future, so different than missing flesh and body and sound. I am already missing the dream of us, shrinking some, wrinkling more, side by side, holding each other and all those we love, as we cross into our imagined old age. Still dressed like we were kids, listening to music, watching movies and maybe denying the physical changes and limits we were both accustomed to doing already. The missing pictures of future trips and life events. The photos which for me will always have an empty space by my side.

I never once thought about the photographs which will never exist. I’m grateful for the ones I have. I can choose the part of life in which we were our most beautiful vibrant selves and soak in those memories. Michael will always have seen me full of our love and joy, forever young or at least younger. I think I’ll do the same with him and revel in his strength and humor and consistency that is stacked on my shelves, the outside and inside ones.

And I will forever hate fucking cancer, as my friend Cynthia and I always say. Fucking cancer.