Myth of Nostalgia
Sometimes a painting will speak to me, and I have no choice but to reply.
Norman Rockwell. Marriage License. 1955.
"You guys look like my parents," I say.
She's petite; her pale canary dress hugs her curvy torso and billows into folds of pastel yellow bliss. Molded into soft waves, her hair is that luminous shade where brown ends and blonde begins.
He stands a head taller than her; sturdy shoulders, proud jaw, and a closely cropped haircut that suggests recent discharge papers. His arm curls around her tiny waist; gentle, not even whispering a threat.
The sullen geriatric clerk slumps behind a desk, his brittle body nearly folded in half.
If only he would spring out of his chair, snatch the pen from her hand he'd be performing an act as heroic as CPR or the Heimlich maneuver.
But he just sits there, dead behind the eyes as she smiles with red lips and signs her life away.