The Problem with Polaroids

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The morning after his first heartbreak, he stood huddled in the group, flashing a toothy grin while his insides had red hot blisters erupting everywhere. 
You see the problem with Polaroids?

Years later, sifting through the school yearbook, she would find a girl with chubby cheeks and eyes that spell out rainbows and life in big screaming letters, and she would throw the vase of flowers at the television screen in helpless fury, refusing to believe it was her.
You see the problem with polaroids?

He was an earthquake contained in skin and she, a tranquil lake. They brought down the wedding photo from the wall together and left it on the kitchen sink, that night. 
You see the problem with polaroids?

When deadlines seemed to choke him and corporate rankles stung his worn-out soul, he stood at the terrace and blew the Rhododendron leaves, his little niece's wonder-struck eyes, the purple sundown, and the brittle nails holding a cigarette -- moments locked in frames that weren't enough money. 
You see the problem with polaroids?

They looked at the lense, and worried about their hair and the whiteness of their teeth. Nobody noticed the tired eyes of the person behind the camera.
You see the problem with polaroids?

I saw all your photos where I am not there. Memories made in abundance. Memories where I don't belong. 
I see the problem with polaroids.

April 5, 2015

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