Free Write, Love, Writing

The Photograph


I am young in the photograph. Wide-eyes, painted in aquamarine, stare intently from the weathered print. Olive skin plays a tug-of-war with the deep hue of my magenta lipstick. I am wearing a sundress: frilly, typical, which hangs limply from my emaciated figure. I am not alone. Pictured beside me is a man, clothed in the body of a Greek god. His smile is arrogant, yet his eyes bear an intense humility.

Lazily, I release my grip on the photograph, and watch as it slowly glides from my hand to the nearby coffee table. I try to remember the day that we took the picture, but the memory has somehow become lodged in my brain. Indifferent, I take my usual seat on the patio and open my favorite novel for a quick afternoon read. Hours have passed before I think of the photo again. Interrupting my thoughts is a loud rap on the front door. I hurriedly pull open the door, and find myself staring into those familiar eyes, the eyes of the man in the photograph.

He is my husband, but I do not remember.

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