Talking Pictures

I don’t spook easily. I believe God can and does perform supernatural wonders. But I also believe that UFO sightings, levitating objects, and bumps in the night have logical explanations. However, some things are just plain weird. Take for example the talking picture frames I purchased for our children.

Inside each frame I placed a photo of a child with their father. Hubby recorded a message on each of them. The night he left I placed the frames next to the children’s beds.

“Look, look,” I heard a child squeal when she discovered her frame. The others scattered to their own rooms in search of equal treasure.

“My very own picture frame,” said the 4-year old hugging it tight, “I love it.”

But these were no ordinary frames.

“Hello honey, this is Dad. I love you and miss you lots. I’m so very proud of you. Be good while I’m gone.” My daughter nearly dropped the frame as it spoke to her.

“They talk! They talk!” She ran to show the others how to listen to the personal message from their dad. For the next 15 minutes the children replayed their dad’s voice over and over again.

Time came for good night kisses and prayers. After tucking blankets snuggly around the youngest, I backed out of the room exchanging “Sweet Dreams” and “Love yous.” Then I flipped off the light.

“Hi Honey. This is Dad. I love you. I miss you. Be good for Mom.”

I switched the lights back on to see a child, mouth open and eyes wide, mirroring my surprised expression. We both examined the picture frame, finding the voice only activated as it was suppose to when we placed our hand over the sensor.

Tucking the child back into bed, I repeated the process. Again turning off the lights caused the frame to speak. The same thing happened in every room for every child.

I am sure electrostatic or some other rational, scientific cause can explain this phenomena. That does not change the fact that without planning or forethought on our part the last voice my children hear every night is their father’s.

Note of Caution:

A couple of things I should mention if you happen to purchase one of these frames.

1. One morning I heard Hubby’s voice coming from the four-year olds’ room. Walking passed his doorway I noticed the frame sitting on the floor next to him. Every once in awhile Baby Boy stopped playing and ran his finger across the top of the frame just to hear his dad’s voice. A few minutes later I heard, “Dad! Dad! Where did you go Dad?” Curious fingers erased the message with a push of a button, leaving Baby Boy in despair.

To avoid this catastrophe, after recording the message place the switch on the back in the lock position, then place duct tape over the switch. Also, save messages on audio files on your computer so that you can restore peace and happiness without delay.

2. If you leave town make sure to inform your house-sitter of the frames and their quirks, especially if said sitter is female. Nothing freaks a woman out more than locking up a strange house at night, turning off lights and out of pitch darkness hear a male voice say, “Hi Honey…”

The First 24

Leaving the airport I fell mechanically into mother-mode. Four hungry mouths insisted they were starving. My mother-in-law suggested we all go out for lunch. “That sounds good,” I said, anything to keep us from returning to a home without hubby.

Pulling into our driveway a few hours later I started making a mental list of all the household chores that had been ignored the last week as we prepared for hubby’s departure. Even before the garage door closed I had assigned each child a task. Take out the garbage. Clean the litter box. Straighten the family room. As for me, piles of laundry called my name.

“We can do this,” I convinced myself, “I can do this.” Taking a deep breath, I opened the door and entered an empty house.

Who was I kidding?

Leaning over to grab tennis shoes tossed on our bedroom floor I chuckled. “Well, at least I won’t be picking up after him for the next year.”

The next year.

I sat down beside the shoes and sobbed.

The same scenario played out over and over again every time I did something for the “last” time. Hung up a bathrobe. Folded his jeans. Cleared the pieces of paper from his dresser.

The instant I pulled out the last t-shirt from the dryer I regretted it. All his clothes were washed and now nothing smelled like him. I dashed up to our closet hoping to find an item I missed and damned myself for being so thorough.

I stayed up way too late that night, dreading crawling into bed. Sleep overcame my will about 1 a.m. Laying my head on my pillow, I snuggled up to a new box of Kleenex praying that tomorrow would be a little more tolerable.

It was. Just a little. Very little.

Tears often caught me off guard the next couple of months. I couldn’t trust myself to speak about much of anything fearing I would start to blubber.

Then about the three month point things start to even out. The “recovery and stabilization” phase of the emotional cycle of deployment kicked in and I started functioning better in my new normal.

That doesn’t mean I don’t cry anymore. The tears have become as predictable and measured as Sunday afternoons. They no longer flood my ability to do anything else.

But my throat tightens up and eyes start to water whenever I recall those first 24 hours without him.