I don't photograph my kids when they are whining or yelling at me.
I don't photograph myself when I am yelling at my kids.
I have no pictures of the ticks, swollen with the blood of my child, I keep removing from Isla's head.
I can't photograph the fear and guilt I feel when removing said ticks, wondering if they carry Lyme disease.
I don't take pictures of the mouse shit on the counter each and every morning.
I don't photograph my back fat, my irritability at all my too -tight pants, or the lines the top of my socks etch into my calves after a day of wear.
I don't take pictures of my parmesean cheese heels, in dire need of a cheese grater.
I don't take pictures of my sad, tense face on the phone with my Dad as he repeats himself and I know he's not going to tell mom I called, or why.
I can't take pictures of the knots my brain and heart goes into when I'm talking to my friend about her marriage problems.
I don't photograph the sorry state of the inside of my car.
I don't take pictures of the sorry state of the inside of my purse.
I have no pictures of the globs of toothpaste that are forever sticking to the side of the sink.
I don't take pictures of the tears in Isla's eyes when I catch her off guard with my impatience, or my anger.
I didn't photograph the pathetic tantrum Essie had tonight--the one I knew was coming since she went to a birthday party sleepover last night and stayed up past midnight-- just before she fell asleep, curled up on a chair
I won't be photographing the world's most depressing Shaw's Supermarket in Poultney.
I can't take a picture of the TMJ headache I have right now and which I am medicating with a gin and tonic.
I cannot photograph the sadness and regret I feel with each new day that goes by without our speaking a word of French.
Nor could I capture the emptyness I felt when walking the hollow streets of my childhood home town the other day.
There's nothing wrong, I suppose, with focusing on the more beautiful, pristine parts of life. It's human nature. It just feels, oh, I don't know, false some times. Like misrepresentation.
But, then again, it could be the very thing all of us need, a reminder to look under the dead leaves, behind the disappointments, and beyond the idealized childhood memories, for the good stuff that's here right now.
|Like Sissy's Kitchen|
|which is worthy of two photos.|
|Or raw organic milk from the Larson Farm|
|Or the joy of a screened in porch, not to mention being reunited with my old slippers.|
|And a new green yoga mat|
|on a rare slow morning.|