My husband, still brain injured, is going through photos from our trip this summer. He is picking out all the unflattering ones of me, of which, sadly, there are a plenty. He loves these photos, with me my face squinched up in pain, sunburned, eyes in slits, grimacing, cold. He sits and laughs at them and calls to me: hey, you gotta see this!
I wonder, is this what love is? To somehow see something appealing in something, well, not?
I remind him that beautiful women can’t take photos like that.
He doesn’t say anything, but keeps sorting, laughing, and saving.
It’s hard these days. I don’t want a new normal. Sometimes I’m afraid that’s what we’re facing—as I cling to the past. Time tramples over us, and I think, if only I could go to Scotland and see some castles. Maybe I’d come back with a nice accent instead of a tan.