Miss, Do I Know You?

44 - Saturday, July 3

It could be felt in the air. Maybe it was the way the sun set a little too late, hesitating on the horizon, or the way the flowers seemed to droop beneath the weight of the humidity. It could be felt in the way the wind blew, in the way the birds sang a different tune. Or maybe it was the way Alex's smile didn't quite reach her eyes anymore.

Recent days had infused our time together with an inexplicable strangeness. Though our conversations echoed with laughter and our exchanges were never short of words, an intangible distance seemed to permeate everything. It grew like a weed, crowding out every conversation and moment, a shadowy feeling that I could not quite explain or pin down. But I knew that something had changed.

I looked for relief in the familiar routine of daily life, hoping that merely the passing of time would work its magic and restore the solid ground beneath our feet. Home and its comforts awaited me every evening after work, but a subtle feeling of unrest lingered, like a ghostly presence that refused to show itself. A quiet dread that I could almost taste, that tingled my senses. No matter how much I tried to will it away, there was hesitance in Alex's touch, second thoughts, and uncertainty. For the first time, our careful balance had been tipped off, and I had no idea how to restore it. Nothing left to do but scramble in search of the reason for it and figure out how to mend it.

Though our days remained unchanged, everything felt kind of off. But today, the sun claimed the sky with more brightness and cast a sunny glow upon the earth below. Today, the refrigerator barely hummed. The summer rain was long gone, and the windows shone with light. Today, Alex's smile reached higher, for we had something to be very happy about. The family had gathered in Toronto to celebrate Henrie's beat of cancer. He was okay, and life at that moment felt fairer.

"Oh, you two?" Henrie's voice broke the room as he muted the television that hummed in the background of our chatter. "You bring the photos?"

"Yeah." Alex pushed herself up. "They're in the car. Give me a sec."

Benji squirmed around on the couch before dropping onto my lap. And when Alex returned, hands full of memories, emotions grew within us all with every page flipped in those photo albums.

We watched Alex and Benji grow up together, birthdays pass, holidays come and go, and the simplest everyday moments sparkle with happiness, all consisting of the same three to four people. Or five, toward the end. From Benji's toothless grins and wobbly legs to his first school days and chaotic science fair projects, to last Christmas and us sitting in trees. I had seen it all a hundred times, through photos and stories, but I could imagine how Henrie and Lucile felt then, knowing that under different circumstances, maybe merely one different decision, we could have watched those moments happen in real time. Yet, no matter the bittersweetness, it was impossible not to smile.

Mine usually had the opposite effect. Avoided for over six years, those family albums tended to take a lot of pauses and tears to get through. But together, it was easier. I could've sat there all day listening to everyone telling me how much I looked like my mom now, with Henrie adding in a few stories along the way, us laughing whenever we stumbled on some long-forgotten photos of Alex and me. I was seeing those moments with fresh eyes that saw a meaning I had never before appreciated. The colors were brighter, the lines sharper, and the details clearer, not just a reminder of what had been lost but also of what had once been—the love and joy that had colored my childhood. That was when I tasted acceptance so strongly, so directly.

In the pages of Benji's non-bird album, nature and its creatures remained old friends; each photograph was a tender love letter to the world, a glimpse of his mind, a mix of instant and developed photos that we could barely keep up with when it came to printing. A rusty gate, a lazy cat, a blade of grass. Flowers and trees. Candid moments with Alex and me, caught in silly poses. Us cooking together, our walks through the neighboring forest. Even snippets from just last week of us—Alex, Benji, me, Anthony, Gabi, Henrie, Lucille, Owen and his kids, later even Sophia—barbecuing in Gabi's backyard. That boy never left home without his camera, and always found something special in the mundane. It was his world, an innocent vision, an untarnished perspective.