We spent hundreds of dollars for hundreds of pictures, but we never look at them.  Which is kind of a shame; she was an excellent photographer, but images—like language—are insufficient when it comes to telling some truths.  Our wedding photos don’t show the way you smiled at me when we met at a party in 2002.  They don’t show us surrounded by candles in my old apartment on our first Valentine’s Day, or your naked back as you sat up the next morning, glancing over your shoulder at me.  They don’t show how I thought “I love her” for the first time when you gave me that look.

They don’t show us setting up the bookshelves in our first house.  They don’t show us drunk in the living room, dancing clumsily to a ska mix tape.  They don’t show the way you laugh when I exclaim “Motherfucker!” as you place the tiles on the Scrabble board exactly where I need you to not place them. 

They don’t show me taking your hand while you cried that July morning when we pulled away from our house in Missouri for the last time, on our way to Florida.  Or the way you talk about sex to distract me when I’m panicky on an airplane.  They don’t show the dread I felt when that jackass rear-ended us, totaling our car and leaving you—only momentarily, but it felt like forever-- unable to answer when I asked “Are you okay?”

They don’t show the times I stormed out of the house after an argument, leaving you to cry alone, or the time you told me that I’d made you so angry that you’d vomited.  They don’t show us on the side of the highway—out of gas, each of us blaming the other—and how we both silently feared, under the July Florida sun, that this was the fight that would finally lead to our divorce.

They certainly don’t show how we forgive each other everyday.  Or how we make each other laugh when you call me “Scumbag” and I call you “Needledick.”  They don’t show that I’m the only person in the world who knew to buy you the Collected Works of Thomas Middleton, that you’re the only one knew to buy me the All-Star Family Feud DVD. 

Smiling and saying “Grrr” when we pass in the halls at work.  My head in your lap while we watch TV.  You touching my leg while I’m driving. The way you turn on your side while still asleep and put your arm across my chest almost every morning. 

The photos show our wedding and reception, and I guess they show how much I love you, since they capture me committing my life to you.  But they don’t show how deeply and profoundly I like you; they don’t show our marriage.  It’s too weird and wonderful for a mere photograph—or, for that matter, an essay-- to express.