Photos are funny things.  I depend on them to mark history, yet I don’t really trust them.  Photos have their own agenda.

I spent the two weeks before vacation polishing a chapter, a single chapter, in the memoir.  It’s always been one of those “trouble chapters,” one I’ve written and rewritten about two dozen times, one where I finally had to decide if I should just kill the fucking thing, put it out of its misery, and move on.

In the end, the chapter was saved by a photograph.  I saw a photograph that triggered the right memory, started rewriting again, and two-plus weeks later the trouble chapter set itself, finally, like a stone pillar into my story.

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Yesterday I picked up the giant stack of mostly junk-mail that accumulated while we were gone.  One envelope contained nineteen 3×5 snapshots from my first wedding.  My stepmother found them in a drawer and thought I’d like to have them.

One photo was a surprise.  Me, 25 years old.  Me, wearing only my veil, bra, and panties.  Me, looking frozen, stunned, holding my tanned arms out like a scarecrow, hands dangling, helpless.  I look like I’m waiting for someone to hang me up on the post.

I’ve never seen this picture.  I hardly recognize myself.  I keep looking at it and wondering, “who is that girl?”

Does this ever happen to you?

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