He’d stay up all night looking at pictures. Colored photographs of when they were younger, taken with a Polaroid.

There were shots of her wearing a graduation gown. Long blonde hair covered her shoulders. A tassel with an ’86 on it. Colors of blue and white. The cap matched her eyes. 

They married soon after. He got a job at the factory making gas pumps while she stayed home and took care of their newborn. A baby boy. A girl would follow.

Those pictures of family vacations, dates to the prom, the boy in his football uniform, daughter in a marching band outfit. She played the piccolo.

But the snapshots that really got to him were of her down at the beach. They drank beer and had barbecues with other couples. Cruised Lake George. Watched the sun go down.

And now he sat by himself. Kids off in other towns; spread apart by states. The daughter married some insurance salesman in Georgia while the boy joined the Marines; he always wanted to live in California. 

Pictures. He touched her face with his fingertips. Held them up to the light and kissed her. It had been a long time since she left. 

He took off a couple of nights a week. Told her he was going fishing, or hunting, or overtime. A couple of nights turned into three or four.

One night, she followed him down the Lincoln Highway into Ohio. She watched as his pickup truck turned into the driveway, a light on over the porch. 

This woman greeted him while holding a baby. She bounced it in her arms and handed it to him. He kissed the girl’s forehead and walked into the house. She slowly drove away.

Now he was alone. Wrinkles in skin and hair gray with a bottle of Pepsi beside him as he popped peanuts in his mouth and looked at old pictures. Photographs of her.