Faded Photographs

It's sad when someone gives something up without a fight - or so they say. I mean, "don't it always seem you don't know what you got til it's gone." The funny thing about memory is that you sometimes forget the reasons why you did things. You only remember the things that made you feel good... or the spectacularlly bad situation which is the stuff of legend. If there is no spectacularlly bad thing, you only remember smiles, kisses, hugs, and sweet nothings. And eventually, you even forget that.

While I was in Pennsylvania I had the opportunity to look at old family photos. Unlike some families that organize their photos in scrapbooks and albums, these were just piled into boxes. That tradition continued into my immediate family, and I suppose, ended with me. In any case, photo boxes tell just as much as albums. I learned some things about my family that I had never imagined.

Now, these things were not large all encompassing things. They weren't silly stories, or long lost dreams. I saw photos of my dad's ex-girlfriend from highschool. There was even a picture of them kissing. She looked kind of like my mom, but more plain and with a rounder face. I asked about it. I mean, why, after all these years (most of which my dad has been married to my mom, and only ever my mom) did these photos still reside in my grandparents' photo boxes? It seemed a strange thing. My dad confessed that she was an on-again/off-again. Apparently there had been several times when he had dated this particular girl. She must have stuck in his head a little more than most, because even after having met my mother (before they became very serious) he talked about this girl. But of course, he met my mother.

It got me thinking about relationships in a way that I hadn't before. There's always one before. There's always one that gets mentioned again. It colors our experiences afterwards. But it's just a color - and with repeated exposure to sunlight and sometimes spilled coffee, it disappears entirely.

I uprooted my plumeria. It just didn't fit in the soil. I was worried it would get too much sun and dry out, or drown in the water of an unusually wet winter. It happened so fast, it was almost as though it was swallowed by the marine layer. He stopped talking. He stopped writing. I stopped calling. Right now, of course, I'm nursing the hurt of realization. I'm nursing the hurt that he didn't care enough to fight or to say how much he cared, or how this was painful for him to realize too. I was greeted with silence. Silence says so much it's scary sometimes. And here I am, trying to comfort myself by talking, talking into silence.

I'm nursing the pain so my selective memory hasn't yet set in. I'm still waiting for the negative memories to fade, and leave me with all sweet nothings that were dealt in glances and furtive hand holdings. And then, someone will come along. Someone always does. They will be bigger and brighter than the morning star. They will fade the memories with time and exposure.

Some day a child of mine will come upon my slim album where I collect pictures of meaningful people and ask about this one. "He was my on-again/off-again." "I was still talking about him when I met your father." "Yes, that shirt was a terrible idea." "No, I only wore that dress once." "I don't remember what we did, I don't remember what we said." "You look just like me." "You're doing the same thing I did." "Don't let this discourage you, we all go through it." The silence of the photo gives way to the laughter of a lover.