Angie Kinghorn

As we really are

In the middle of my grandmother’s 100th birthday party, somewhere after the bread pudding but before the champagne toast, the photographer came to our end of the table.  

We have endless photos for our children of the two of us, smiling into the camera.  The laptop is packed with family shots where someone is tired, cranky, not smiling, or sticking a tongue out for posterity.  Even if everyone is smiling, it tends to look like we’re candidates for a police lineup. 

I wanted to capture a image of just the two of us; a slice of the evening that will one day let our children see that the relationship between their mother and father is richer and deeper than they imagined when they saw us only as purveyors of food, toys, and hugs.  

I told Mark what I had in mind, and he thought it was sappy.  “Why would you want to snuggle my face in a picture?” he asked.

“Just trust me,” I said, leaning into him, letting my face settle next to his, loving the familiarity of our planes and curves fitting together.  I wanted this photo so our kids could see us one day as we are together, as we are when no one is watching.

He sighed, leaned into me, and we both exhaled and relaxed into each other.

The shutter must have clicked, but I don’t remember hearing it.
  

**This is a memoir piece for Write on Edge, an online writers’ workshop.  The prompt: This week, I’m asking you to take us into the moment your favorite photograph of yourself was taken, to show us who you were then and what the photograph means–in 300 words.

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