Photograph
The Only One
Paul,
I found our photo album the other day. I wish I hadn’t. The binding is falling to pieces, and the gleaming red leather that once coated it has now faded to nothing more than a mundane brown. The pages are peeling, and some have holes in where they have been dampened with tears. Some of the pictures inside have fallen out, lost forever. Others however, still remain in the tattered book, and unfortunately remind me of the bad times. And exactly 1 year, 3 months, 2 weeks and a day after our split, my eyes started to water just like they did on that day, that dreaded day, the day you broke my heart.
I had promised myself I wouldn’t cry anymore, convinced myself that you weren’t worth it. But the photo album brought it all back. I was sure I had got rid of it. Part of me was angry, frustrated that I had let this slip out of my hands and hide in the back of the wardrobe. And yet I let a little smile creep onto my lips. The good memories seeped into my mind, drowning the terrible ones in a sea of smiles and happiness. I remembered walks on the beach as the sunset on the horizon, picnics in the park on sunny spring afternoons. The scent of that freshly cut green grass came to me almost like it was yesterday. And yet I knew it was so long ago.
As I smiled to myself as I thought about the good memories, I remembered one time when we had been bowling, a group of us, and you had taken me out because my stomach had been so busy with butterflies it felt as though I was going to be sick. It was one of the first times I’d been anywhere with you, and even now I could feel your presence with me, as I remembered how you wrapped your arms around me, and told me that everything was going to be okay. And even now, as I am writing this letter, I can still feel that first touch of your lips against mine. It was magic.
But then the good memories turned to bad ones. When I remember that day, I also remember the last time we went to the bowling ally, which was the day it all ended. It’s ironic really, the place where are relationship started is also where it ended. You were always the jealous type. And so you just ended it, there and then. I thought we were going so well, that things were really starting to fall into place and make sense. Obviously, I was wrong. And I don’t think I can take it. I thought you were the one.
I couldn’t take those memories, building up inside my mind until it was choc-a-block with fear. So I ripped up the photographs. Taken all over the country, in all of the seasons, at all times of day and night. Then they were gone. The simple memories held on pieces of flimsy paper, which can be broken, ripped, destroyed. But the memories in my mind will last forever. And that’s going to be the hardest part. I need to leave them behind, in order to leave you behind. But how can I?
So now there’s only one photograph left. My favourite. It’s of us, just us, together. We were lying in a field, and I’d taken out my digital camera to get a record of this picture perfect moment. And now it’s the only physical memorial left. All the other photos are in millions of tiny pieces all over the cold, wooden floor that lies beneath my feet right now, as I write you this last letter. I thought ripping them apart would make me feel better, maybe I thought that it would bring a sense of completion, of closure. But it didn’t. And so I’ve written this letter. I doubt it will ever get sent, as I could never expose all these built up feelings to you. I just have one more thing to say.
You’ve taken my heart, my soul, and all that’s left now is a photograph. I hope you’re happy.
Jennifer.
I found our photo album the other day. I wish I hadn’t. The binding is falling to pieces, and the gleaming red leather that once coated it has now faded to nothing more than a mundane brown. The pages are peeling, and some have holes in where they have been dampened with tears. Some of the pictures inside have fallen out, lost forever. Others however, still remain in the tattered book, and unfortunately remind me of the bad times. And exactly 1 year, 3 months, 2 weeks and a day after our split, my eyes started to water just like they did on that day, that dreaded day, the day you broke my heart.
I had promised myself I wouldn’t cry anymore, convinced myself that you weren’t worth it. But the photo album brought it all back. I was sure I had got rid of it. Part of me was angry, frustrated that I had let this slip out of my hands and hide in the back of the wardrobe. And yet I let a little smile creep onto my lips. The good memories seeped into my mind, drowning the terrible ones in a sea of smiles and happiness. I remembered walks on the beach as the sunset on the horizon, picnics in the park on sunny spring afternoons. The scent of that freshly cut green grass came to me almost like it was yesterday. And yet I knew it was so long ago.
As I smiled to myself as I thought about the good memories, I remembered one time when we had been bowling, a group of us, and you had taken me out because my stomach had been so busy with butterflies it felt as though I was going to be sick. It was one of the first times I’d been anywhere with you, and even now I could feel your presence with me, as I remembered how you wrapped your arms around me, and told me that everything was going to be okay. And even now, as I am writing this letter, I can still feel that first touch of your lips against mine. It was magic.
But then the good memories turned to bad ones. When I remember that day, I also remember the last time we went to the bowling ally, which was the day it all ended. It’s ironic really, the place where are relationship started is also where it ended. You were always the jealous type. And so you just ended it, there and then. I thought we were going so well, that things were really starting to fall into place and make sense. Obviously, I was wrong. And I don’t think I can take it. I thought you were the one.
I couldn’t take those memories, building up inside my mind until it was choc-a-block with fear. So I ripped up the photographs. Taken all over the country, in all of the seasons, at all times of day and night. Then they were gone. The simple memories held on pieces of flimsy paper, which can be broken, ripped, destroyed. But the memories in my mind will last forever. And that’s going to be the hardest part. I need to leave them behind, in order to leave you behind. But how can I?
So now there’s only one photograph left. My favourite. It’s of us, just us, together. We were lying in a field, and I’d taken out my digital camera to get a record of this picture perfect moment. And now it’s the only physical memorial left. All the other photos are in millions of tiny pieces all over the cold, wooden floor that lies beneath my feet right now, as I write you this last letter. I thought ripping them apart would make me feel better, maybe I thought that it would bring a sense of completion, of closure. But it didn’t. And so I’ve written this letter. I doubt it will ever get sent, as I could never expose all these built up feelings to you. I just have one more thing to say.
You’ve taken my heart, my soul, and all that’s left now is a photograph. I hope you’re happy.
Jennifer.