Life Beyond The Frame Of Loss

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Photos rarely tell the full story. Beyond the edge of a smile, simply past the bit of an arm around another's waist lurks the dark shadow of grief waiting to bleed into the happiness. For me, photographs are a reminder of what has been lost. A mother, a succor, beloved grandparents, friends of friends, four horses that carried me to championship wins, one foal that did not survive past the gawky, bent legged stage, two guinea pigs, three dogs together with my most precious Roxy and my husband.

The visual history of me contains all of the would haves, should haves, might haves. So I can not dig into the past. I will not reach into the recesses of the storage space. I can not search down into the boxes of family photos and times past. I cannot. Nowadays, I live in the instant as much as I can. I connect to those in my world in present time. There are fewer regrets and a smaller variety of missed opportunities this way.

My mother's death when I was seventeen taught me of the precarious nature of life. I learned it might be snatched from us, seemingly without reason. The hours she spent preserving reminiscences of our childhood in family photo albums failed to buffer me from the pain of scouring those self same pages years later for a final note, a sure look or smile, proof that notwithstanding her addiction to drugs she had loved me. Photos do not invariably reveal what we seek.

Twenty years later, I searched the pages of my wedding album wanting for some clue of the illness that would later steal my husband away. I checked each close-up just higher than the place where the crisp white collar met the blackness of his tuxedo on the proper side of his neck. There were no lumps of Hodgkin's Lymphoma in these photos. In my memory, I run my hand over his skin just higher than the hollow of his collarbone. It had been my hiding place on unhealthy days. I might nuzzle into that spot and find safety and love. There was no red scar that might later mark the origin of his diagnosis in the sepia toned portraits shot on our wedding day.

It's not in photographs however in my memory that my mother's love and my husband's bit, live most vividly and gently. There my heart is not hurt by what might have been. There I realize peace, stave off loneliness and honor those lost to me.

Once Gary's death, I checked out the photo on his last driver's license while not the filter of denial and questioned how I may not have known what the end result of his illness would be. Dark hollows like [*fr1] moons gathered under his eyes. Missing eyebrows, bald head, sunken cheeks. Most telling were the eyes. The light and the fire were gone. Sometimes footage tell the entire story.

About the Author:
Terry Henry has been writing articles online for nearly 2 years now. Not only does this author specialize in Grief Loss ,you can also check out his latest website about:
Vintage Messenger Bags Which reviews and lists the best
Vintage Leather Messenger Bags



Article Originally Published On: http://www.articlesnatch.com


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