Snapshots

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I was alone. For once, I was alone in the house. My husband was off on a business trip and my kids were off with their friends. The quiet was disturbing. I couldn't remember the last time I had been alone in the house. But I did remember what I had done.

I hurried up to the second floor. I pulled on the string and ascended into the attic. No one ever went up there. My daughter was too afraid, my son too prone to allergies, and my husband was hardly ever around to even have the chance to go there. But, no matter, I knew that someday my kids would explore the attic, I just didn't know when, so I would I had to hide it. I located the creaky board that lifted up when my worn fingers gripped it. I reached in with my other hand, through the ocean of dust, and continued to reach until they bumped into it. I grabbed it and pulled it out, blew the dust off quickly.

My fingers ran over the leather bound notebook that was worn with age. I remember the day I got it; I had been fifteen. That had been seven years before, before I had settled down, before I had gotten married, before I had even thought about getting married. I remember, because that had been that very fateful day when Matthew Cunningham had asked me out, making him my very first boyfriend.

I opened the notebook and glanced at the first page. A Polaroid was carefully taped down and I almost laughed from the wave of memories that hit me. There was me, looking nervous, awkward, and excited; there was Matthew, his hands strangling one another, looking twice as much of any of the emotions that I was feeling. We were both blushing, both looking at the floor as if it was the only thing that would ever be able to console us. I remember being scared that he wouldn't ask; he was exponentially more so that I'd say no.

There was a caption underneath: "You said yes. I don't know how, but somehow, you said yes." I recognized the handwriting at once. It was Matthew's. Of course, the only people who had ever written in the notebook were the two of us; no one had even seen it other than us. And I had written in cursive at that time, and the caption was chicken scratched print.

I turned the page and looked down. The very first picture I had contributed was staring back at me. It had been our first date. I remember seeing the photo for the first time and being freaked out, because to get the picture, my mom had stood at the window and taken a hundred photos just to get the perfect shot. I remembered that moment so very well. I remember trying to climb into Matthew's dad's truck, but I was too short and the truck too high, so I had slipped while trying to scramble in and how he had caught me. It hadn't been one of the bride-carry catches, but, instead, him just grabbing hold of my waist, so I wouldn't keep tumbling and damage something more than my pride.

The caption, in my handwriting, read: "Sorry I made our first date anything less than perfect. I still feel bad for scaring your dad like that. Are you sure I was the right choice for you?" Underneath was a single word. I remembered reading it for the first time; it still gave me that same thrill: "Yes."

The next few pages entailed a few more various dates: a dastardly attempt at a group date that had ended with me throwing up on Matthew's pants after the worst case of food poisoning that my doctor claimed to have ever seen; the time when he tried to make me watch Dr. Who, but I fell asleep until he changed the channel to my favorite crime TV show; the time that we hadn't been watching were we were going as we walked in the park, hand in hand, and I accidentally dumped him into the pond, but got dragged into it with him.

I turned the page and my throat seemed to close in on itself. On both sides, we had each posted a picture and a caption, since they went together.

Matthew's picture was the one that each couple had to take on the way into our sophomore year's winter formal. I gulped remembering how long I had saved up to buy that dress, how the deep purple  had stood out against my pale skin, with my curly black hair resting gently on it. I remember walking up to Matthew's house that night, hearing an argument through the door. I had waited five minutes after the arguing had stopped to ring the doorbell, and told his parents that my hair had taken longer to get done than we had expected. It wasn't until dinner, after his parents had dropped us off, had he said that the argument was over his tie. When I tried to protest that I didn't know what argument he had been talking about, he told me that I hadn't been late at all, even though I had given an explanation that said otherwise. I told him I liked his tie; it was Star Wars themed and fitted his personality perfectly. I saw that tie in the picture and my throat tightened still. I looked at the way that his arms fit around my waist and how I leaned against him, just slightly, only enough for us and anyone who was experienced in posing to know.