I stared at the photo, and it stared back at me. She was obscured somehow, like only half of her was there. The white wedding dress evident, but only to tell me what it was all about. It’s me, and her, but not all of her, not all of me. Together, but not completely together. The photo told me this, with a misty grey nostalgic stare in its eyes. This, it said in its unblinking gaze, is what it’s all about. You stand mostly alone, you have lost your connection, its missing like something torn in half. That’s the picture, that’s your life, can’t you see?
I did see, in black and white with hints of grey. Black suit, white wedding dress, a grey mist reflecting some of the light and obfuscating the details. It’s all a bit of a blur now don’t you see? Time has etched an image of something, but it’s not the same as the original as I recollect. But the lens doesn’t lie though, does it? I wept. Jesus did too, we all do. We weep at the death of something, the apparent irretrievable, utterly irrevocable truth and finality of it all. Somehow though, like Mary, we hope for the miraculous resurrection.