Bury Me in the Golden Light of a 1970s Photograph
A beautiful life, full of regret .
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I blame the perfume commercials of the 1980s. Images of sports cars winding up dark roads with a couple in love, on their way to an old stone restaurant, where candles illuminated the moss. Or maybe I imagined the commercials, but the image still slides into my thoughts, like an old Kodak slide carousel that starts up unexpectedly, snapping through images of the life I was supposed to have.
As a child, I conjured up pictures of my future: there was a man, there was candlelight, there were scenes on porches in twilight, there were scenes during golden hour, like walking back to a house nestled in redwoods with a dog at my side. This slideshow made me certain that life was going to be mysterious and big; beautiful, sexy and both dark and warm; easy, locking together like puzzle. Now as an adult, these images pop up to remind me of all the things that didn’t happen, all the ways things turned out wrong.
But in childhood, these images reassured me that my life was going to be incredible. I had no evidence of this other than my imagination. There was nothing about my childhood that should have made me feel that way, and yet I was convinced that I would be desired (but not sure how) and I would be important (but not sure how). Life would be visually stunning, with a certain light and shadow, deep color and velvety textures. My future career, home, husband and kids were important but not the most important part. The important part was how it was all going to look — blood-colored leaves in fall, salty ocean trips, warm light on a chopping board in the evening.
The images shifted all the time. I went through a phase where I imagined a royal blue plush carpet — as a child, my taste was questionable — that was supposed to be somewhere in my future. But there were a wide range of images. When we went camping on the beach, I saw a future of sea-worn wooden furniture, ice plants on the side of a sandy slope to the sea. When I visited my friend Danielle, her glamorous mother Lynn made me envision a future of a permanent tan, piles of gold jewelry, icy pink lips. Lynn watered her flowers wearing a strapless bright yellow terry cloth dress, yelling “hi Darlin!” to everyone who drove by, gold bracelets clanging. I filed this…
