Wedding Photo

I wrap my blanket tightly around my shoulders and shuffle aimlessly from room to room. Passing the mirror in the front hall, I glance at my reflection. Red-rimmed, bloodshot eyes; greasy, stringy hair; and lines across my forehead and around my mouth. Pathetic. Broken. Hopeless. Everything I am feeling inside is perfectly portrayed on the outside.

Disgusted, I turn away and enter the kitchen. The room still has the fresh smell of newly cut wood. The new cabinets he had only just installed gleam in the sunlight. The cheerfulness annoys me. I roughly tug on the Roman shades until the light is cut off, and the room is dark and gloomy again. The stove lights up like a lantern when I turn the teakettle on. I don't know why I did. I don't like tea.

As always, I end up in the living room. I move to sit on the couch, avoiding the love-seat at all costs; but, like gravity, the mantel pulls me over to the fireplace. There, in the center of the shelf, is the photo. How I hate that photo, but still love it too much to put it away. I wipe away the dust with the edge of my blanket.

He smiles at me with that boyish grin. His face tells it all; he's in love. But not with me. I barely recognize the white-clad bride who once smiled up at him with adoring eyes. I remember looking at him like that. I remember his arms tightly around me, as if he was telling the camera, "She's mine and only mine."

"I'm still yours, baby," I whisper, running my finger down the glass that protects his handsome face.

Lifting the heavy picture frame off the mantel, I carry it back to the couch and curl myself around it. I try to absorb his love into my body, hoping it will bring me back to life. Nothing happens. My dry eyes begin to itch, and I squeeze them shut; but nothing comes out. My tears are all used up. I'm dried out.

I look back down at the picture and trace every inch of his face with my mind. I try to remember that special day, the beginning of our life and, ironically, the end of his. In my mind, the smell of flowers is replaced with the smell of burning oil and blood; the feeling of spinning in his arms becomes the impact of two cars; the laughter and sounds of well-wishers are now the screams of braking tires and of my fear. Instead of spending the night in my husband's arms, I spent it crying over his broken body as police and rescue workers ran around me.

The teakettle whistles in the kitchen, jarring me back to today. I let it squeal and enjoy the break of morbid silence. Life is moving on, and my arm is tired from trying to hang on to him as I am swept along with it. I press a kiss onto his smiling face and return the picture to the mantel. Someday I'll make myself let go. I shuffle to the kitchen and turn off the stove. Noises creep in under the window, beckoning to me to come back outside to life. Someday I'll take them up on their offer. Someday.

Bethany Bachman writes in Philadelphia and didn't want to write this story but did anyway for the experience.


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