Unveiled

Pictures speak a thousand words. That’s what they say or at least something akin to it. But do they really? Look at this picture and tell me what you see: a soldier, a car, a house. But there is so much this picture cannot say. It doesn’t tell you this is my youngest son about to head back to Afghanistan to complete his second tour of duty. Who waits in the car beside him? The picture is silent, unable to fill in the details. But I know. Inside that car is a wife trying desperately not to shed tears, at least until she gets her husband to the airport. Inside that car is a one year old who got to show his daddy he could walk for the first time a couple of weeks ago. Inside that car is a five year old who, for the first time, really understands she won’t see her daddy for, what to her, must seem an eternity. A tearful mom is beside her baby boy in uniform but the picture is mute. It can’t even tell you this soldier’s dad holds the camera, hoping he can be strong for his wife as he watches his son drive away.

As time passes our memories become cropped just like this picture. We tend to remember the milestones of life but often loose track of what lingers at the edges: the sound of the birds as you sat together in the back yard, the rustle of the flag he hung proudly on your house, the creak of a rocking chair as you sat together with the house once again quiet. Too quiet.

It is in these moments I am reminded why I write.  Well crafted words remind us of the intangibles. They unveil the reality just beyond our natural senses. I write to remind myself and others what lingers just past the edges of our cropped photographs.

Your mom’s hand is on your back son. The picture doesn’t show that but yet you know it. We’ve always “had your back.” Just like you have ours. All of us.