June 5, 2017
The bonfire was huge, lighting up our corner of the universe and the faces of the friends who gathered. But I didn’t take one picture.
Earlier, when the sun was still up, but definitely at least at a 30 degree angle, there were more people than chairs, huddled around tables and make-shift conversation areas, laid out in sets of fours that morphed into one large amoeba shaped grouping and a few smaller ones. It was a beautiful evening, no rain though some was predicted and the sky was a perfect backdrop for a selfie or several with friends from near and far. But I didn’t take a single one.
Even earlier, as my daughters gathered in the kitchen, making food and drinks for the party to celebrate my birth and life (and privately, in some small region of my heart, that I am still here), I didn’t take a single picture of them, singing Disney songs from nearly one score ago and dancing while they chopped and whipped and stirred and danced, and, because they are sisters three, fought a bit, as well.
And even still earlier, no pictures of my spouse, taking control of a party I wished for, out loud. Inviting, planning, shopping and asking all the right questions and pulling together an event, simply because I asked.
And not one picture was taken, at least not by me.
And not one picture is needed, as the night, the evening, the afternoon and the weeks leading up to this party well up within, and now, I can call up those feelings and those faces and the taste and feel of that champagne butter cream frosting and feel all the feels again–of love and kinship and a knowledge that the world is good (even when it is bad) because these people are in it and have shared themselves with me.
So here is a picture of the outline of trees taken from inside the house, illuminated by the light shining from the church behind our house. It can stand in for all the photos not taken–the light that shines from light bulbs, flames, and the love in each other’s eyes.