Picture this . . .

_DSC0203Photo junkie that I am, I have an embarrassingly h-u-u-ge amount of pictures on my computer— and I make no apologies. As I tell my kids and grands when they protest their gramma-razzi sneaking pictures, pictures are all we have in the end. With literally hundreds of pictures of my husband alone, I am pretty grateful for my addiction to photo opportunities.

No, I don’t pore over these pictures constantly. But there is always one that pops up in one way or another, and when it’s a shot of my husband, it sometimes does me in. The funny thing is that I don’t even have to look too closely to see so much more than the camera lens shows.  With just a glance at his face, his arm around me; mine around him and I can’t look away. I analyze, romanticize, tear up, melt down. Seeing these stilled images, I can actually FEEL my husband’s broad back under my fingers. I can sense the prickly chin stubble of his kisses before he shaved. I see his long lashes in profile, even when the camera doesn’t.  I smile at the unruly, wiry eyebrows always sporting that one jutting curly hair. I imagine him flexing his fingers as he spoke, empathizing whatever he was saying as clearly as if he was standing right in front of me. And I can’t help but see the wedding band he loved so much on his hand.  How could I not? It was the first thing he requested as soon as he hit the hospital recovery room after every procedure.

I wake up each morning to a framed photo on my dresser, one of the favorites I took of that husband of mine.  Sure it’s ‘up close and personal’ but even without glasses, even if I can’t even see the details from my pillow, I’d still know every plane and crease of his handsome face. I see the way one shoulder sloped from too many basketball dislocations. I can even still see, in embedded memory, those skinny legs I was always jealous of and of course the comical feet we laughed about so often.

I forget where I put my glasses. I can’t remember why I went into the garage. Yet, I remember nearly every inch of that man with aching clarity.

I guess it must be love.

TALK TO ME . . .

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