in this one...

 

In this one (snapshots)

In this one, his hair is longer than it’s been for years, and he’s talking to someone new: A giant of a man, holding a tiny baby while he rocks in a camp chair under the pavilion. These men are both vets, both fathers, making connections over family, faith, and war.  If they have similar scars, you can’t tell from the picture. Today, they are both smiling. There is gray in his dark curls. There is tentative courage in his voice. 

In this one, he sits across the picnic table from her, swinging his keys on his finger. He looks out over the water; she looks at his face. She grips her contigo in her hand, trying to hold on to more than just the coffee. She studies his face, she sees the insecurity in his smile as his words come out joking-but-earnest. Heavy motorcycle boots stabilize him as he tries to gather a few thoughts from the chaotic swarm flying all over the lake. She loves having a front seat to his process. 

In this one, she is sitting on the cement front porch steps. Her eyes are closed and head is back against the white siding on the house. She’s not aware of the sun on her face but the sounds from indoors: singing lessons. She can hear the piano, the pauses, the instructions “stand up straight! Hands out of your pockets!” She knows she may not sit nearby and gawk so she has found a nearby space, giving them a respectable distance, where she can smile and listen and pray in the sunshine, while teenagers step out into love and risk, with singing.

In this one, he strums the acoustic guitar by the campfire, and even though others are present, he dares to sing. His eyes are closed- perhaps for courage? or to resist the temptation to look at her face to see what she thinks?  She is curled up in a bulky sweatshirt on the camp chair next to him; what will she do with her face? Does she know the power she holds? Before long, she joins her voice to his, and both get stronger. And the one who holds the camera finally exhales. 

In this one, she is standing with arms akimbo, knees bent, VR headset and a smile on her face; the garage floor is clean for once. Outside the dog barks at the Amazon delivery truck; a man with a giant box is just doing his job. She hears all this over the roar of the fan and the loud music; she considers pausing to avoid awkwardly being caught in exuberance. She imagines the quick glance and embarrassed smirk that might happen if she gets caught; she’s seen it a hundred times when she keeps dancing at a stoplight.  But the music is too fun and the virtual targets keep coming; why pause when you could be dancing?

In this one, she is wearing a messy bun and workout clothes, sitting on the driveway surrounded by parts of a wheelbarrow, scowling at the instructions. Yesterday she had to ask for help starting the powerwasher. She has wimpy grip strength, and it turns out, a flooding sense of overwhelm when she looks at diagrams with numbers and parts and measurements. She’ll probably decide to write about quitting instead.