The other day I found myself thinking about how much love is invisible while you’re living inside it.
Not invisible in the dramatic sense. More like the way it hides in habits and small movements. An arm around a shoulder, the steady push of a pram over uneven ground. The shared pace you don’t have to negotiate because it’s already agreed upon. Sometimes it takes a photo to show you what you couldn’t fully register in real time.
This poem comes from a memory my mother captured years ago. We were on vacation, walking into town, and our first-born daughter was eight months old. And in that frame — without anyone trying to “pose” love — there it was.
When She Was 8 Months Old
My mother snapped a photo of us years ago.
Our first-born daughter was just 4 eight months old.
Pushing the pram, you kept your arm around my shoulder,
guiding me over the cobblestones —
the outline of your back
blocking the sun from me.
I wore a white sunhat, sun-bronzed legs.
Our baby napped under a thin sheet.
The old cathedral stood tall,
its spirals casting shadows across the square.
Grains of sand blew in from the beach,
the afternoon rolling in
over the pavement’s heat.
In that frame,
I am completely held.
The years slipping quietly by.
I love how photographs can do that — hold a moment still long enough for you to feel it properly. Not because you didn’t feel loved then, but because you were busy living. Walking into town, pushing the pram, getting through the day. Years later, you look back and notice what was always there.
Do you have a photo like that? One that doesn’t look like much at first, but holds an entire season of your life? If you feel like sharing, I’d love to hear about it.
Related post: The Power of Photographs in Poetry
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