Best Day Ever

Back then, my sights had been set high. Like my father before me, I’d had it all mapped out

- Wendy Clarke

The photograph album lies open in front of me, the bare bulb that hangs from the rafters illuminating the faces of the people. For a moment, the books of cigarette cards I’ve been searching for are forgotten.

“How long do you think you’ll be, Peter?”

My wife’s voice floats up through the bright square of the loft hatch and I turn away from my memories. “I’ll be down in a minute.” Balancing on the joists, I lean my elbows on the dusty edges of the tea chest that serves as a table, and squint at the pictures of Jen and me when we were first dating. She’s wearing a pair of flared jeans and her hair falls almost to her waist. I touch my finger to the sideburns I thought made me look like Ray Davies and smile to myself. I might have looked like a beatnik but, even then, my sights had been set high. First a law degree and then to study for the bar. Like my father before me, I’d had it all mapped out.

Putting the album to one side, I take out another and blow off the dust that’s accumulated on its spine. This one has a date: 1980. Gone is Jen’s straight hair and in its place are fluffy curls, a nod towards her favourite film, Flashdance. We’d been married a year by then and she would have been expecting Daniel but the outsized baby-pink sweatshirt she’s wearing in the photograph hides her pregnancy well.