I need to believe he was happy, but at what cost? Perhaps I always needed to believe this, perhaps that is where the rose colored glasses came in at. Perhaps.
I shouldn’t have gone looking through pictures, shouldn’t have forced it. I shouldn’t have tried to convince myself, yet again, that he was happy. The truth -the hard, cold, honest to goodness truth is that he wasn’t happy. Regardless of what I wanted to see or believe. If he were happy -he wouldn’t have done what he did. If I hadn’t forced myself to believe that somehow, he was happy -maybe, just maybe, he would still be here.
My mind so badly wants to believe that somehow -regardless of how true it is -that he was happy. Of course the pictures show he was happy -why wouldn’t they? I’m not the type to snap pictures of sad or miserable people -I take pictures of things I want to keep, memories I want to hold onto. The few pictures I do have don’t speak as loudly as the ones I don’t. The gaps in between the ages and pictures tell a story louder than any picture ever could.
He wasn’t happy.
Yet I still want to believe, somehow, that he was. Even if it means changing history. Rewriting the past because I cannot live with knowing that he wasn’t happy.
But history doesn’t lie. The missing pictures, the few smiles scattered in between tell a story loud and clear.
I found what I was looking for -I found my answer. I just didn’t find the answer I was looking for.
Sure, I found one or two pictures that have him, smiling.
But between the lines, the missing pictures, the lack of evidence tells me everything I need to know -louder and clearer than any smiling picture ever could. He wasn’t happy. I didn’t want to believe. I still don’t want to.
Yet instead of being able to do something about this -I am left to live the rest of my life knowing that he wasn’t happy and I failed to notice.