he stares at the photos in the book

it isn’t about what he sees

it’s what is missing

the things that don’t show up in the frame

what appears between shutter clicks

he remembers things differently than the snap shots of suburban bliss

his wife smiling at him

he only sees the snarling face as she stumbles in a drunken rage

a knife in her hand

she screams at him

demanding to know who the whore is

throwing dishes at him

hitting him with a frying pan as he tries to sleep

that doesn’t come through in the frozen moment of perceived marital bliss

the kids wear long sleeves

no bruises showing

how long did he ignore the signs

how long were these photos the reality he chose to believe

when the true reality

the real reality

was so god damned depressing and surreal

by the time the photos of real life developed in his mind

wavey images under the red light

coming into detail in the pans of solution

it was too late

she had died in a car accident

drunk and wrapped around a guard rail

the kids had built up scars like shells around their battered hearts

and he was alone

with album after album of imprecise images

and a head full of horrible truths

sometimes when he is all alone he looks through them

imagining this was how it really was

maybe she died of cancer

the kids call him on the holidays

they swing by on the weekends and cut the grass

sunday night dinner around the table

a fire burning in the mantle

love all around

and then he sees the times between the shutter clicks

and he remembers

it was all a lie