The Stranger in the Photo is Me

Tender blue eyes looked up at her two loving parents. Her dimples pressed deeper into her face as she began to describe her exploits in the game of tag; how someone can actually win a game of tag is trivial, but it has been proven true that anything is possible in a three year-old’s mind. The family’s jubilant laughter echoed from a mile away, and broke the crisp feeling of the autumn air. Leaves crunched and crackled under their feet with swift leaps through the open yard. The sun’s rays reached out to warm their skin from behind the sheep-like clouds that cantered through the sky. The mother had wispy red hair that escaped from her loose ponytail, tied by a maroon, velvet scrunchie. Her oversized sweater draped effortlessly over her black jeans that met the top of her chocolate leather boots. She had unmistakeable hazel eyes that captivated anyone she was talking to. The father wore faded Levi’s that had an imprinted dip ring in his back right pocket. His faded Hobart t-shirt matched his faded smile; he had seen a lot in his day, but that all seemed to be left on the front porch when he got the chance to play with his daughter. The little girl wore a Polartec fleece with a completely out of style pattern, only to match the mistake of a haircut she got the week before. Kudos to her father for being the mastermind behind all of that. The aspects of the picture that were so imperfect fit perfectly together as the joyous couple ran around with their baby. One big, happy family.

And yet, what stood behind the camera left an unsettling feeling in the pit of the girl’s stomach. The picture could not display a household of incessant fighting, friction, and worry. The picture could not display the divorce of the happy couple, and the heartbreak of the family. If it could exhibit reality, you would see a broken family. Instead of a game of tag, it was tug of war. The little girl became the rope that each parent had grown more desperate to possess. Every pull was without compromise, and every pull inflicted a painful blow of truth. There was no happy couple; that fantasy was gone long before the picture was taken.

When you have a memory you want to cherish, you feather and weave it with embellishments, so it becomes impossibly happy. When thinking of myself as the little girl in the grass, I hear a sweet birdsong echoing between the hollows of the trees. I see blooming lilac flowers as they nod in the delicate breeze. In reality, this is only what I want to remember, and what I choose to remember. I do everything in my power to stop myself from tarnishing the perfection of a moment with the actual decay of my family. I filled the silence of an unfinished argument with beautiful sounds, and strayed my attention away from the anger in their faces. For a moment, I pretended that the tension couldn’t be cut with a knife. We all do this. We hold tight to what we want to be true, and chose to remember what makes memories worthwhile.

But, unfortunately, this romance with the past makes it impossible to move forward with the future. I still am the rope in their struggle. Ironically, it is their struggle that has made me strong and independent. I no longer hide the mottled scars created from the wringing of their rope. Instead, I am proud of what is left of the wounds. They are a constant reminder that I am a better person because of every push and pull; every tug builds my resistance to difficult times. Without that, I would have never been shaped into the person I am today.