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  • I was six when my parents divorced. They separated when I was somewhat closer to three and my brother in diapers, and I cannot remember a time when they were happily married. At least, not to each other.

    Dad's been remarried so long that he and my stepmom have celebrated their silver wedding anniversary with barely a whisper and the boys that he raised have families of their own as has my sister while my brother and I try to figure out how make our family and families work.

    Sorting through photos at my grandmother's house and trying to fit her life into a box, I find a picture I've never seen – my mom and my dad on the eve of their wedding.

    Short skirt. Long hair. Baby faces on both. They look so happy and in the picture, they're a decade and a half younger than I am now and so full of love and light and laughter and youth that I barely recognize them.

    Amy was born on an air force base barely two years later. Dad's hair was crew cut by then and when it grew out, the blond had passed as had the laughter and youth. The love and light would pass soon. I came later, then my brother, the separation and divorce. Remarriage to other people in other places and times followed, and they're happy now, in their own ways.

    But the girl in the picture, the one with the short skirt and long hair still doesn't understand what happened. She wants more. Love and light, laughter and youth.
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