Written by Ute Orgassa
The photograph is black and white, yellowed at the edges, and of atrocious quality. I
squint at the details. The rambunctious group of people playing in the sand is barely
recognizable. Yet, it holds more than just the grainy image, it holds all the memories that come
with it. The way the sunlight warmed us all and almost burned my skin. The feel of the sand and
the water. The smell of the suntan lotion and the feel of that cheap plastic beach ball. The sound
of our voices, laughing and yelling, and teasing each other.
I seek out the faces, the smiles. Five pairs of eyes crinkled with happiness, five mouths
wide with grins. Five visages radiating mirth. Mine is one of them. I remember that day so
crisply. It stands out in the haze of so many other events, clear as a beacon.
I scan over the hairstyles, the fashion. Those things that used to matter so much. Now
they don’t matter at all. It’s about the people, not their looks. The only thing this picture is
screaming at me is youth. We thought it was eternal. We were blundering gods of invincibility.
Of course, that is the thing we all lost. We don’t look like this anymore. And one of us is gone
forever.
We will never get together in this configuration again. Our ‘us’ is gone. The intricate
balance between us forever destroyed. We are left, holding the memories, while one part has
gone dark for good, leaving a hole that can never be filled.
It fascinates me that I am both more and less than I was on that day. More, because I now
have so many more memories of all of us. Years and years of conversations and shenanigans, but
also troubles, illnesses, betrayal, and grief. Less, because I do not possess so many things
anymore that my younger self mindlessly enjoyed. Among them: strength, vigor, potential,
possibilities, and a foolish confidence that we would all be friends forever. It didn’t turn out that
way. I envy her, the young woman in the picture, wearing a likeness that I can no longer achieve.
She was ignorant and happy.
I wish I could live inside this picture. Partake once more in that perfect day when
everything was still all right. I can’t. There is no way to go back there, except, of course, in my
own mind. And my own mind colors over the innocence of that day. Layers and layers of doubts.
Was he always this way? When did it start? Could things have gone differently? Could haves and
would haves and if onlys clutter and darken the bright skies and sunny smiles in the photograph.
Everything is tinged with hindsight and regret. I miss him. I miss our dynamic. The interplay
between all five of us.
I put the picture away. Wishing myself back to better days is not going to help me enjoy
the here and now. I did what needed to be done. He should have known better than to betray us.
.
Ute Orgassa was born and raised in Germany. She now lives with her family in the Bay Area. Her short stories have been published by Shortwave Publishing, Haunted Word, Alternative Milk, Punk Noir, Alien Buddha, Infested, Cursed Morsels, and Cat Eye Press. Her play A Different Track was produced by Awkward Pigeons Theater.