Afternoon photos

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.




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