Marital Muse
The picture commanded a torrent of memories. How old was she? Twenty-five, he guessed.
He remembered those blue jeans like yesterday. High on the waist, loose at the hips, straight down the leg, folded at the ankle. Her waist-length golden brown hair rested casually over her shoulders, nesting on her tan knit vest and short-sleeved shirt. It must have been late summer, early fall.
Hoisted upon her waist, in her favorite purple overalls, was their two-year-old daughter. They waved to the camera in the phony style of a princess on the back of a convertible. They both sported an impish grin. He had forgotten how bald his daughter had been. Still, no one ever mistook her for a boy; her beautiful eyes gave her away even as an infant.
She stood in the kitchen of the country farmhouse where they lived while he was in graduate school. Linoleum flooring, Formica countertops, painted cabinets -- he loved that home. He smiled as he thought of its crooked floors. What a time he had jimmying the fridge so the door would close! He could still taste the sulfur smell of the well water dripping from the sink behind them. He felt like Helen Keller every time he cranked the pump out back.
He stumbled across the long-forgotten photograph while cleaning a box in the closet. His throat thickened as he recalled the innocence and simple joy of their brief country life. Life was good back then.
Within three years of that photograph, they were divorced. What happened to their idyllic marriage? How did they grow so distant so rapidly? He hardly remembered anymore. There was no cataclysmic event: they simply drifted apart. Communication dried up. Joy evaporated. Their relationship felt beyond repair. They broke up.
Life since then had been good to both of them. She had two more children in her next marriage. She seemed happy. He was glad for that. He'd had some rough spots along the way, but after a few years he married someone with two children of her own. He loved his wife and step children and, generally, had few regrets.
Until today. The picture unleashed a flood of unexpected thoughts and feelings. He wondered what might have been. What other children might they have had if they had stayed together? Would the little girl in the picture have had a sister or brother? He felt guilty for the thought.
What would it have been like to have his daughter always at home, rather than face the delicate balancing act of alternating schedules? How difficult was it for her to juggle two separate homes? How much of her growing up years had he missed despite his best efforts to stay active in her life?
When they broke up twenty years ago, all they could see was the insurmountable challenge of salvaging their relationship. Fearing a lifetime of unhappiness, they made the best decision they could. From this vantage point, he could see that the ramifications of their decision had been much greater than they had imagined. He quietly admitted to himself that their problems hadn’t been as catastrophic as they had appeared at close range. He could see that now.
Tomorrow was his daughter’s wedding day. She was twenty-five years old, just as her mother was in the picture he now held in his hand. He would proudly walk her down the aisle. He would tearfully say, “Her Mother and I” when the minister asked the question. He would offer a strong hand to his new son and a gentle kiss to his beloved daughter.
He would not say it, but he would certainly think it: “Dear children, please do not be as short-sighted as your mother and I were. Twenty years from now, when you stumble across the pictures of this day, may it bring you tears of joy, not pangs of regret.”
He remembered those blue jeans like yesterday. High on the waist, loose at the hips, straight down the leg, folded at the ankle. Her waist-length golden brown hair rested casually over her shoulders, nesting on her tan knit vest and short-sleeved shirt. It must have been late summer, early fall.
Hoisted upon her waist, in her favorite purple overalls, was their two-year-old daughter. They waved to the camera in the phony style of a princess on the back of a convertible. They both sported an impish grin. He had forgotten how bald his daughter had been. Still, no one ever mistook her for a boy; her beautiful eyes gave her away even as an infant.
She stood in the kitchen of the country farmhouse where they lived while he was in graduate school. Linoleum flooring, Formica countertops, painted cabinets -- he loved that home. He smiled as he thought of its crooked floors. What a time he had jimmying the fridge so the door would close! He could still taste the sulfur smell of the well water dripping from the sink behind them. He felt like Helen Keller every time he cranked the pump out back.
He stumbled across the long-forgotten photograph while cleaning a box in the closet. His throat thickened as he recalled the innocence and simple joy of their brief country life. Life was good back then.
Within three years of that photograph, they were divorced. What happened to their idyllic marriage? How did they grow so distant so rapidly? He hardly remembered anymore. There was no cataclysmic event: they simply drifted apart. Communication dried up. Joy evaporated. Their relationship felt beyond repair. They broke up.
Life since then had been good to both of them. She had two more children in her next marriage. She seemed happy. He was glad for that. He'd had some rough spots along the way, but after a few years he married someone with two children of her own. He loved his wife and step children and, generally, had few regrets.
Until today. The picture unleashed a flood of unexpected thoughts and feelings. He wondered what might have been. What other children might they have had if they had stayed together? Would the little girl in the picture have had a sister or brother? He felt guilty for the thought.
What would it have been like to have his daughter always at home, rather than face the delicate balancing act of alternating schedules? How difficult was it for her to juggle two separate homes? How much of her growing up years had he missed despite his best efforts to stay active in her life?
When they broke up twenty years ago, all they could see was the insurmountable challenge of salvaging their relationship. Fearing a lifetime of unhappiness, they made the best decision they could. From this vantage point, he could see that the ramifications of their decision had been much greater than they had imagined. He quietly admitted to himself that their problems hadn’t been as catastrophic as they had appeared at close range. He could see that now.
Tomorrow was his daughter’s wedding day. She was twenty-five years old, just as her mother was in the picture he now held in his hand. He would proudly walk her down the aisle. He would tearfully say, “Her Mother and I” when the minister asked the question. He would offer a strong hand to his new son and a gentle kiss to his beloved daughter.
He would not say it, but he would certainly think it: “Dear children, please do not be as short-sighted as your mother and I were. Twenty years from now, when you stumble across the pictures of this day, may it bring you tears of joy, not pangs of regret.”