My Ghost of Christmas Future

a fable of forewarning from a future me

Welcome back, to this true love exhibition.

This week’s story is real in the way dreams are real.

My husband had one large pore on his left cheekbone that only I noticed.

It was always filled with hard, dark sebum. It could be mistaken for a hair follicle.

Removing the sebum was a rare satisfaction for me, something I managed twice in all our years.

I couldn’t ignore the pore, much like my kids' boogers. When their dewdrop faces had crusty nostrils, I instinctively removed the stalagmites. They let me do it during their first cold season, but by the second, they squealed and flinched as my fingers neared.

Interestingly, my husband’s pore never appears in pictures. I’m not just talking about fisheye lens shots—like my first glimpse of him through that pub garden door, his quirked grin within The Day Drinkers’ Last Supper. No, I can’t see his pore in regular, zoomable pictures. All I see is his face—the strong brow, the doglike eyes.

I’m glad I have the photos, as I struggle to remember his face in my mind. I only recall how he’d shrug away when I approached the pore.

Soundtrack:

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