Schrödinger's Family

I was in these photos. We all were at one time. I look upon the faces of family and see strangers. Images of people I thought I knew but about whom I have come to learn difficult truths. What I thought I had lived as reality in these snapshots was a façade. We were Schrödinger's family. A blending whose senior members performed a carefully crafted, elaborate charade of words and postures meant to signify ties for the sake of one man who believed us to be united.

He lived it as true. I wanted it to be true.

Over the years I would notice things that threatened that hope I shared with him, but I would be talked out of my suspicion. Elaborate explanations and situational extrapolation of intent was liberally applied to recast the circumspect actors of the time. It wasn't permitted to piece together the larger picture that hung over us all like towering clouds pregnant with devastation.

He insisted it was true. I wanted it to be true.

In these photographs I see a tumult of voices that were always clamoring over one another to be heard. Syllabic warriors of indelicate volume alone would breach the walls. All others would either flee the battlefield, cowering under the assault or find themselves silenced in the voluble melee. Eventually, the decision was merely whether to engage at all. Except for him. He never had to overwhelm to be heard. We all wanted to hear him, to engage with him. He had only to speak, and all would be silent.

He made it true. I wanted it to be true.

Secretly I came to fear it was a gambit though that meant accepting the duplicity necessary to maintain the deception. I denied it. For years I denied it even as actions chipped away and revealed that these smiling faces and warm embraces were emotional paint on a reluctant heart. Or dare it be said, a resentful heart. One day it became clear that everything truly had been meant to please him alone and that when he was gone, all pretenses would be dropped.

He believed it was true. I wanted it to be true.

The image of us as a single family was held together in the fierce grip of his unwavering belief alone. With his death his hand went slack, and, in his palm, the prismatic light of that hope faded to mirage, the mirage to dream, the dream to ash. In less than a day his carefully tended familial façade was blown apart with mortar shells wrapped in their discarded masks. One by one, each person in these photographs vanished without a backward glance. All that is left is the backdrop for the play that was performed with regrettable, consummate skill.

He gave everything to make it true. I wanted it to be true.

Because of you, it never was.