I found an old box of photos in my parents’ basement recently. You know the kind; the brown file box that when you open the lid a million loose 4x6s fall out. I sat down and dug in. Ones of my dad in rural Alberta. Ones of my grandma at a party with a glass of wine laughing, looking young and vibrant. Ones of my mom holding my brand new baby sister, sweating from the heat wave that happened that summer. Ones of me on my first two wheeler; blue with streamers on the handles and neon spoke beads. My parents on their wedding day in a tiki bar, laughing. And what enthralled me the most was the way none of them were posed. The way each one elicited a memory. There’s our old house in the background! There’s the couch I can specifically remember the way it feels for my head to be on the armrest. That is the bike that my dad held the seat of while running me down our cul-de-sac. And I guess it hit me then that THAT is why I do this. So that one day, you too, can look at what we create and remember those tiny moments that make up a life. So that someone, one day, will find a box (or likely a file on your computer), and be told a story of lives that were beautiful and heartbreaking and hilarious and soft. Tell me about yours.