Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.
Happiness is in the heart of the feeler.
Memories are written and recalled as uniquely as we each are.
I take them to the city to see the sights, to hear and smell and feel the difference in the air.
A city full of passion and confusion, chaos and magic, overstimulation and isolation, fears and dreams.
My love affair cannot be passed down, only shared.
I see them recall their last time, they note the difference, they wonder at the newness.
Memories are being written; some with magic in the moment and some will await the magic in a future recollection.
Tagged: childhood, family, New York City, NYC, photography, travel
My Oliver. My last born. My easiest and most challenging, my most confident and most doubtful. You haven’t needed me as much, parting easily, not lingering or hanging on my words. Yet sometimes you need me so much, too much, more than I can give in a minute or a day. Let me spread it out over your day, your year, your lifetime. But to you a lifetime is inconsequential, it is urgent today. It demands all of you and therefore it should, and needs, to demand all of me. So much swirling and twisting and tumbling and twirling. Your thoughts dance and leap and make big and overwhelming movements, never settling. You wish for puberty so your body can grow but your mind is already racing ahead.
When the kids were young we filled every weekend with outings whether to a museum or a farm, hands-on indoors or climbing outdoors. We packed the snacks, packed it all in in the hopes these memories would be indelible and if not, we’d remember for them with the hundreds of photos I’d capture chasing them around. In all our outings we never went to 
Our Everyday 