( p . 44 ) John and Allison at her friend ’ s wedding , 2006 . There ’ s a look from my mother which has ruined me since I first picked this up . I wasn ’ t invited to the wedding . I can ’ t even say whose it is , but it has the usual setup . A grand house in the country with a pop-up marquee in a garden lined with fir trees . Guests distinctly congealed into the groups they ’ re familiar with . John ’ s wearing the same suit he ’ s worn to these events for the past decade or so , but he ’ s outgrown it ; his shirt is stretched and the sleeves ride up his arms . Allison ’ s wearing a newly bought green dress . She looks younger than her years .
Every time I came home something about the pair of them had changed , like something had died or been lost to time : gray hairs appearing , a sullen facial expression first materializing , or the canonized romantic gestures like dancing in the kitchen no longer occurring . But here , it was like she had ripped that wedding photo out from the first page and jumped inside . Copying her younger self , mimicking an earlier voice . A voice which sang like a newlywed , or one which cooed her newborn . I want to go back , turn up at this mystery wedding unannounced , request a Nina Simone song , then clear the makeshift dance floor beneath the giant pine tree and remind her how much she loved to dance .
She ’ s beaming . A wide , dimpled smile with her eyes fully open . And just like I ’ m flicking through this dusty book , hoping to find something buried within photographs ; mom finds herself at a friend ’ s wedding , where a camera ’ s slow-motion flash brings her to same realization that I had – that memories turn into traces , but there is still the blissful feeling that a photograph can capture something you forgot you once felt .
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