Sometimes I take the camera out for a certain reason and end up photographing something completely different. The light is warm and yellow, and hitting the backyard grapevines in such a soft way. Sometimes I’ll notice it when I’m at the kitchen sink, and I quickly rush to see if I can keep that feeling by taking a photo. I go out there, all a-rush and hoping the light lasts long enough to capture those little tendrils of illuminated vine. Sometimes I get there, and never take the planned picture, because there is something better, something that distracts and pulls me convincingly in a different direction. Sometimes I see them sitting together, shoulders touching, backs to a warm winter sun, voices low, speaking 8-year-old twin bits of dreamy conversation. They don’t notice me for a moment, and I’m glad I have the long lens so I can just shoot for a quick second, unnoticed. Sometimes the memory and the feeling I’m trying to keep ends up being sweeter and softer and much more illuminating than a slice of light on a grapevine.
They begin to notice me, hear the shutter, get a shy smile, and then look. And right then, right there, I feel like my heart is being pulled in a physical way, a bittersweet pain surprising me with the utter strength of the love felt in being a mother.