Golden Memories: Mommy & Me Photos in Vibrant Poppy Fields

The first breath of summer in Oregon isn’t dictated by the rigidity of calendars. It reveals itself quietly, almost mischievously, through the wild tapestry of blooms that cloak the valley floor. When the winds carry the scent of warmed earth and bees begin their sonorous work between petals, you know the season has arrived. It was during this delicate crescendo into warmth that Claudia and I found ourselves drawn into a vivid whisper of vermilion poppies blooming like fire across the verdant folds near Portland.

Our journey wasn’t born of a plan but of intuition. A breadcrumb trail of images seen in passing—an Instagram story, a tagged location, a comment from a stranger—was enough to lure us from our routines and into a daydream. With children strapped in car seats and baskets of fruit and linen, we chased the horizon, hearts alight with curiosity. There are moments in life that beckon without explanation. This was one of them.

Where the Crimson Sea Meets the Sky

When we arrived, our breath caught in our throats. The field unfurled before us like an ancient tapestry, every flower a delicate brushstroke on nature’s canvas. Wind whispered through stalks and petals, animating the scene with a gentle rhythm that felt almost sacred. There, in the soft hush between breeze and blossom, we stood in reverence. It was not a place for loud declarations. It was a realm of hushed awe.

The children spilled out of the car with giddy abandon, their feet already seeking the soft places. They darted like dragonflies, laughter trailing behind them like a ribbon. My son’s curls caught the sunlight like burnished copper, while Claudia’s little one wove between stems with the agility of a woodland sprite. No screen, no structure, no directive could compete with the kaleidoscope they’d found themselves in.

The Alchemy of Intention and Spontaneity

Claudia, ever the vision of soft grace, wore a marigold dress that caught both sun and shadow with poetic flair. The garment moved like buttercream, fluid and glowing, rendering her both goddess and mother in a single breath. The choice wasn’t calculated—it simply felt right. She had picked it up from a small local boutique tucked away in a corner of Hawthorne, a place that smelled like lavender sachets and cedarwood.

Her son’s attire was equally serendipitous: a pair of miniature suspenders we found at a ramshackle secondhand shop, aged to perfection. The ensemble gave him the air of a 1930s schoolboy, a character out of a sepia-toned novella. Something was grounding about it, a visual nod to the timelessness of childhood.

Our day became a study in contrasts: vivid poppies against soft linen, chaotic toddler energy against still fields, fleeting moments against ancient rhythms of bloom and decay. Nothing was rehearsed, yet everything felt orchestrated by some unseen maestro of beauty.

Chasing Stillness in the Wild

Amid the rustling petals and joyous shrieks, there existed pockets of stillness—small moments that felt too fragile to name. Claudia crouched low, cradling her son’s cheek while he squinted into the sunlight. My daughter is sitting in the dust, stringing clover through the loops of her shoelaces. A shared pear between friends, its juice dribbling unnoticed down chins.

These were the kinds of pauses that rewrote your understanding of time. No longer did it gallop or crawl—it bloomed. Each breath was magnified, each detail pressed in amber. The field seemed to exist outside of linearity, as though it had been waiting patiently for us to arrive, just as we were.

There was no urge to direct, no impulse to interrupt. Just an openness to let the day unfurl like the petals around us. If wonder had a topography, we were knee-deep in it.

An Ode to the Imperfect

We had packed strawberries and granola bars, mismatched quilts, and stained enamel mugs. The children’s shoes didn’t match, and there were grass stains on every hem. But none of that diminished the glory of the moment. If anything, the imperfections stitched it all together like gold running through cracked porcelain.

There’s a curious beauty in letting go of polish, in allowing chaos its rightful place. We didn't come to this field to create perfection. We came to witness the truth. And truth, more often than not, is tangled and sun-dappled, sticky-fingered and breathless.

By midday, Claudia’s hair had surrendered to the wind entirely, framing her freckled face with wild defiance. The children, dusted in pollen and crumbs, looked like characters from a pastoral dream. Even the bees, drunk on nectar, seemed to hover more slowly, as if reluctant to leave the magic.

The Cartography of Memory

On the drive home, silence settled in the car like velvet. The children slept with flushed cheeks and tangled curls, their chests rising in rhythmic peace. Claudia stared out the window, her hand resting lightly on her son’s sandal. I gripped the wheel with a quiet reverence, aware we had collected something rare.

It wasn’t just a trip to see flowers. It was a pilgrimage into our essence—a foray into joy that didn't require explanation or documentation. The field had offered more than just a backdrop. It had been an active participant in our becoming.

Even now, weeks later, I find remnants of the day tucked into corners of our home. A brittle poppy petal pressed between cookbook pages. A tiny sandal was half-buried beneath the couch. Claudia’s text with a photo attached: her son napping on the marigold dress, curled like a comma in a sentence yet to be finished.

The Hidden Language of Seasons

What we discovered wasn’t unique to poppies, nor was it confined to that particular field. It was a language—the dialect of seasons and spontaneity, of showing up with open hands and leaving with full hearts. There is something ancient in that practice, something that feels more inherited than learned.

This isn’t just about chasing fields in bloom. It’s about noticing when life presents you with its vermilion doors and having the courage to walk through them. With littles in tow, yes. With messiness, with noise, with unpredictability. And still choosing to go.

More Than a Moment

We didn’t aim to capture anything that day. We simply sought to be fully, mindfully, with reverence for the wildness of the world and the wildness within our children. That field permitted us to live a page out of a storybook not written for readers, but for feelers.

And isn’t that what the most cherished days become? Not cataloged achievements but lived poetry. Not orchestrated, but stumbled upon. Like poppies—fierce, delicate, and gone too soon.

The Alchemy of Light—Shooting Through Copper and Crystal

Light as Oracle and Illusionist

The late summer sun loitered on the horizon, a molten orb suspended between dream and descent. It did not blaze—it lingered, golden and deliberate, as if choreographed to complement my intention. In that moment, light ceased to be a passive participant. It became my co-creator, an oracle whispering incandescent truths through metal and glass.

I had recently unlocked a practice known among visual artisans as the ring of fire. Though it bore a name echoing some arcane ritual, it was rooted in playful experimentation. By angling a slim, burnished copper pipe just inches before my lens, I channeled the dwindling sunlight into a vortex of refracted brilliance. The halo it summoned—soft yet surreal—wrapped each frame in an elegy to summertime, where every particle shimmered with tender finality.

This wasn’t about gimmickry. It was about reverence. When wielded with restraint and intention, the copper acted as an elemental amplifier, transmuting the ordinary into the celestial.

Following the Child, Not the Script

There’s an inherent wisdom in children that defies linear instruction. Especially toddlers, who dance to a rhythm too sacred for adult design. Claudia’s son was no exception—an unpredictable muse composed of boundless whimsy. He tiptoed first toward a fallen petal, his fingers trembling with discovery, then dashed away into a cathedral of scarlet blossoms, arms open as if to hug the wind.

Had I tried to control the moment, I would have strangled its magic. But by surrendering to his spontaneity, I bore witness to something sublime: movement without motive, wonder without filter.

He was unencumbered by the performative. And that gave my work its marrow. The halo conjured by the copper pipe didn’t just frame him; it celebrated his velocity, his organic rebellion against pose. A child's unrepeatable arc becomes sacred when light is treated not as a spotlight, but as an interpreter of truth.

Crystals as Conduits of Sentiment

Midway through our session, I changed instruments—less a shift in equipment than a change in mood. Where copper evoked nostalgia, my next artifact invited reverie. I introduced a modest chandelier ring, a circular crystal no wider than a silver dollar. In itself, it was nothing extravagant, plucked from a flea market tray, yet it possessed the power to fragment sunlight into botanical kaleidoscopes.

I positioned it loosely near my lens, tilting it ever so slightly as the boy nestled into his mother’s embrace. Their silhouettes, awash in fractured sunlight, seemed to exist in a parallel dimension—one where time hadn’t yet calcified emotion into memory. To maintain clarity without sacrificing shimmer, I adjusted my aperture to f/5, balancing bokeh with presence.

The result wasn’t a still image, but a visual lullaby—a tableau where motherhood was not a posture, but a pulse. A fleeting moment, wrapped in chromatic reverence, now rendered eternal.

Alchemy, Not Accuracy

The tools I used were humble. A copper pipe from a hardware store. A salvaged trinket from a forgotten chandelier. Yet, in the right conditions, these mundane objects became conduits for something larger than art. They translated sentiment into symbols. They turned gestures into glyphs.

I wasn’t capturing reality—I was bending it, reinterpreting it. And not for deception’s sake. But to convey what eyes alone often miss: the sacred vibrations of a mother’s touch, the cosmic dance of a child’s giggle, the velvet hush that drapes the golden hour. These things do not belong in the factual record. They belong to the language of light.

The Sacred Geometry of Serendipity

There is a geometry to serendipity, a quiet symmetry that unfolds when you abandon control and embrace the chaos of light. Shooting through copper or crystal isn’t simply about refracting rays—it’s about inviting a third collaborator into the process: unpredictability.

You see, the ring of fire doesn’t appear consistently. Its presence is affected by micro-adjustments—an angling of the pipe, the tilt of the hand, a subtle shift in the sun’s descent. Each photo becomes an act of triangulation between light, subject, and chance.

Similarly, the crystal does not always yield obedient prisms. Sometimes it offers specters. Sometimes flares. Sometimes, nothing at all. That mystery is what makes the ritual sacred. Every frame becomes a negotiation with the ephemeral.

Curating Emotion, Not Composition

In traditional practice, one might chase the perfect composition—rule of thirds, leading lines, symmetrical balance. But in this ritualistic approach, composition is secondary to emotion. I chased after feelings. A glance heavy with devotion. A laugh caught mid-air. Fingers tangled in curls. These were the anchors of my work.

The artifacts merely magnified the emotional scaffolding. They did not fabricate a connection; they illuminated it. They allowed joy to glitter. They allowed tenderness to glow. And perhaps most importantly, they allowed imperfection to flourish.

Because in truth, it was the blur that mattered. The light leak. The sun flare. The prismatic smudge. These were not errors. These were the fingerprints of the moment, pressed delicately into the frame.

Light as Ancestry and Spell

There is a lineage to light. The rays that touched Claudia’s cheek may have once grazed her grandmother’s garden. The shimmer that encircled her son’s laughter could have bounced off a canyon millennia ago. When I shoot through copper or crystal, I’m not simply bending light—I’m channeling its ancestry.

The artifacts become relics. They evoke spells rather than settings. A halo born of copper is no less powerful than a hymn; it says: here, in this ordinary field, something holy happened. The prism cast by glass says: this moment refuses to die; it shall refract forever.

And in doing so, the image becomes less about recognition and more about invocation.

The Solitude of the Artist at Golden Hour

Golden hour is both a gift and a gauntlet. It teeters on brevity. It demands agility. There is only a narrow slit of time when light drapes just right, thick and honeyed, like syrup over silence.

As I crouched in the soft earth, copper pipe trembling in my left hand, I felt suspended in communion. The boy galloped. His mother twirled. Around us, dragonflies stitched their way through shadows. And in my hand, a talisman turned sunlight into a sermon.

No words were spoken. None were needed. Because in that final act of light before dusk swallowed the color, everything that needed saying had already been sung—in copper and crystal, in laughter and lens.

Crafting a Visual Incantation

More than a method, this was ritual. More than technique, it was invocation. And like all rituals, it demanded respect, patience, and openness. My role was not to dictate, but to invite. Not to frame, but to witness.

When I arrived home that evening, I looked at the captures not as images but as relics. Each one bore its alchemy. Copper halos around careless joy. Crystal flares illuminating maternal devotion. These were not products—they were spells caught mid-cast.

Embracing Impermanence

The true power of this craft lies in its impermanence. The light will never fall quite the same again. The boy will age. The mother’s embrace will shift. The field may wilt by next week. But through copper and crystal, I granted them a second life—a life suspended in amber, vibrating with the echoes of the unrepeatable.

And that, perhaps, is the great purpose. Not to capture what was. But to enshrine what almost slipped away unnoticed.

Light as a Living Language

In the end, what I learned was this: light speaks. Not in language, but in pulse. In shimmer. In warmth. In defiance. And when you learn to speak back using the tools of transformation—humble ones like copper, forgotten ones like crystal—you become more than an artist. You become an interpreter of invisible hymns.

What began as an experiment became an enchantment. A chase for a flare turned into a celebration of feeling. A metal pipe and a thrifted jewel became instruments of memory, tenderness, and magic.

The alchemy of light, it turns out, is not bound by gear or gadgets. It is bound only by your willingness to see wonder where others see glare—and to frame that wonder, not with precision, but with devotion.

Where Magic Meets Motherhood—Tales from the Meadow

There’s something mythopoetic about a child offering a flower to their mother. It isn’t just a tender act—it is a ritual, ancient and symbolic, a silent language of devotion spoken through blossoms. It recalls ancestral echoes where offerings were made to maternal deities beneath trees heavy with bloom and sky. So it was, without orchestration, as Claudia knelt in the field and her son, no more than four, pressed a poppy into her hand. The moment hung there, quietly monumental. The wind hushed. The petals trembled.

That gesture wasn’t rehearsed. It arrived unsummoned, gliding on the breeze of instinct and love. Brief as a blink, but infinite in soulprint. What was created in that ephemeral sliver of time was not a visual capture—it was a relic of truth, borne of wildness, simplicity, and unfiltered connection.

These aren’t just relics for albums or mantle spaces. They are invocations of emotion, spellbound in sunlight and spontaneous grace. They are effigies of what it means to be seen in the full expanse of mothering—messy, radiant, and sacred.

The Meadow as Muse

Every field of wildflowers possesses its cadence—an unspoken rhythm that calls to those who listen deeply. Some are bold and theatrical, with tulips like exclamation marks stretching to the sky. Others are softer, murmuring lullabies in the form of baby’s breath and yarrow. But the poppy field—that vanished sea of vermilion where Claudia and her son played—had a pulse all its own. It thrummed with a feral, ephemeral beauty. Here today, gone with the next wind.

Though that field has now disappeared, perhaps plowed under or left to sleep beneath weeds, Oregon remains riddled with whispers of hidden bloomscapes. The Columbia River Gorge—just beyond the edge of Portland’s bustle—unfurls in springtime like a painter’s palette, each trail culminating in a crescendo of color and serenity. Lupines sway like prayers. Balsamroot dazzles like spun sun. The wild beckons with its uncurated grace.

Further south, Silverton hums with floral symphonies. The hills here curl gently, tucking daisies into their folds like secrets. You might stumble upon a thicket of lupines, their indigo towers brushing the sky. Or, if the winds conspire in your favor, you may find the elusive wild poppies—those delicate harbingers of joy, nodding beneath bees’ drunken waltzes.

These places are not props. They are co-authors. They do not decorate the story; they deepen it. The meadow is not the background—it is the beating heart.

The Truth Inside the Chaos

The truth of mothering lies not in perfection, but in the juxtaposition of chaos and grace. As the meadow unfolded beneath us, so too did the realness of the moment: juice-sticky hands reaching for another apple slice, laughter ricocheting off tall stalks of grass, a rogue dandelion seed catching in Claudia’s lashes like a whisper. There was dirt beneath every fingernail, and a small sock had gone missing somewhere between a patch of Queen Anne’s lace and a trailhead sign.

And yet, there was divinity in it. The kind not found in posed expressions or pristine garments, but in the symphonic tangle of life as it truly is. That SUV moment at the end of the day, with children collapsed in giggles and sun-stained cheeks glowing, held more power than any orchestrated scene could offer. We weren’t chasing an aesthetic. We were bearing witness to something ancient and personal.

In that dusty trunk, lit by fading gold and the crinkle of chip bags, motherhood showed her real face—raw, luminous, and unapologetically joyful.

Sacred Objects in Small Hands

There is no comparison to watching a child collect treasures in a field. Every pebble is a moonstone. Every feather, a divine artifact. When Claudia’s daughter found a heart-shaped rock nestled in a puddle, she declared it a love spell and tucked it into her pocket as if it were currency. These small totems—the rock, the wilted petal, the broken stem—carry stories and intentions too nuanced to be spoken aloud.

Later, Claudia would tell me she found that rock in the laundry weeks afterward. Still damp from pockets and mud. She couldn’t bring herself to throw it away. It now rests on her windowsill, a quiet reminder of an afternoon when time slowed and meaning crystallized in the form of a muddy heart.

This is the kind of magic that hides within mothering. Not the grand gesture, but the daily spellwork of noticing, preserving, holding space for wonder.

More Than A Meadow

To suggest that we merely visited a pretty place would be a betrayal of the truth. That poppy field—and the journey to reach it—was a pilgrimage. We arrived not just to see, but to feel. We did not choreograph joy; we stumbled into it, hands open, knees grass-stained.

In this way, the wilds of Oregon became more than geography. They became vessels of myth. Memory anchors. Living altars. And in these altars, children play while mothers rediscover the art of being fully alive.

The beauty of wildflower sessions lies not in their unpredictability alone, but in their collaboration. The blooms shift, the wind changes, a child wanders off-path—and these unplanned ripples often become the nucleus of the day’s most spellbinding moments. That’s the paradox: to seek spontaneity with open-hearted intention.

Tales Etched in Sunlight

That afternoon ended with the sun dripping low into the valley, casting long golden shadows across the hood of Claudia’s car. We didn’t pack away our experience in tidy boxes. It clung to us—on the hem of a skirt, in the scent of crushed mint on our hands, in the way the children asked if we could go “flowering” again next week.

Memory, when made under an open sky, tends to carve itself more deeply into the mind. Perhaps it’s the way the air smells richer, or how sound carries farther. Perhaps it’s simply that nature amplifies what is true.

What I do know is this: those stories from the meadow live on, not just in images or objects or anecdotes, but in Claudia’s voice when she recalls them. In the sparkle of recognition when her son sees a poppy on a roadside and whispers, “For you, Mama.” In the way she keeps that rock, now a talisman, nestled beside a candle on her nightstand.

So this is an invitation—not merely to explore wildflower fields, but to surrender to them. Let your shoes get muddy. Let your children lead the way. Bring snacks, not expectations. Seek moments, not outcomes. What unfurls will be far richer than anything pre-planned.

In these sacred landscapes, something primal and beautiful reawakens. The meadow calls not just to the child in us, but to the archetypal mother—to the nurturer, the holder, the dreamer. And when you answer that call, what you find may not be perfection, but it will be poetry.

Let your next adventure be one where you don’t aim to capture time, but to step inside it. Not to curate beauty, but to conspire with it.

Because magic doesn’t always need a wand—sometimes it’s just a poppy, a pocket, and a mother kneeling to receive it.

Lessons from a Vanished Field—Capturing Fleeting Joy

The poppy field that once spread like a vermilion quilt beneath the Oregon sky is no longer there. Where it once rustled with scarlet defiance in the morning wind, there is now only the hush of memory. Plowed under or devoured by the jaws of progress, its vanishing renders the images captured within it almost hallowed—fragments of time, sealed in amber.

Yet what was enshrined in those images extended far beyond the botanical. It wasn’t about petals or hue or even golden-hour light. What bloomed that day was not just flora but feeling. That afternoon crystallized the cadence of motherhood—untamed, incandescent, ephemeral. The poppies were merely the proscenium; the drama unfolded in every muddy footprint, every reckless giggle, every wind-whipped strand of hair.

There was a woman beside me, lens in hand, vision unshackled. Between us flowed something ancient—an urge to preserve the impermanent. Our tools were humble: a copper pipe turned halo, a chandelier ring that bent sunlight into fire. But the alchemy came not from apparatus—it came from presence. From saying yes to chaos. From letting joy be unscripted.

Why We Grieve Lost Places

The grief of a vanished place is unlike any other. You cannot return to it, not in any physical way. A new field might flower elsewhere, but it will not carry the same whisper. The loss is not only spatial—it’s spiritual. That field held stories no one else will ever know, laughter the wind has already carried away. In its absence, the images become relics of an unrepeatable opera.

And yet, this grief gives weight to the work. The fact that the field is gone makes the captured moments more sacred. A child dancing through blooms that no longer exist becomes a symbol. A metaphor not just for the brevity of a flower's life, but for the relentless unfolding of motherhood itself.

No bloom returns the same way twice. No child laughs the same way tomorrow. No light falls precisely as it did yesterday.

The Art of Letting Light Find You

So many people chase light as if it’s prey. They orchestrate every detail, calculating every shadow, every glint. But something changes when you let go of orchestration. That day, we didn’t chase the light—we invited it in. We let it find us, grazing foreheads and illuminating petal-fringed cheeks. We didn’t reposition the sun. We positioned our hearts.

It was a practice in surrender, in yielding control to the wildness around us. The light came through the ring like liquid myth, tracing halos and painting limbs with a copper kiss. It didn’t need to be perfect. The flaws were what made it incandescent. A flare that obscured half the frame made a toddler’s joy feel volcanic. A ghosted sunbeam turned a mother's hug into something near-celestial.

When you stop demanding perfection from your surroundings, you start co-creating with them. You stop documenting and begin conjuring.

Why Presence Matters More Than Planning

You can map out the golden hour. You can schedule outfits, snacks, and lenses. But the irreplaceable magic happens when your fingers are still, your gaze is soft, and your spirit is tuned to the moment.

The most radiant moments that day weren’t planned—they erupted. A toddler falling backward into the flowers, legs flailing like a beetle. A mother laughing so hard she cried. A moment when everything felt too much, and we paused, breathing in poppy-scented air like benediction.

Presence is the rarest resource in modern memory-making. We are so often performing, curating, and optimizing. But fields do not care for optimization. They want you as you are—wild, windblown, unfiltered. So does motherhood.

Let Imperfection Be Your Muse

That day, nothing went as scripted, and everything was sublime. The wind was too strong. The kids were too messy. The ground is too soggy. The copper pipe slipped from our hands and was smudged with earth. The chandelier ring had a crack. And yet, the frames glowed. Because the imperfection was the story.

A perfectly composed image is admirable, yes. But an image that feels—that pulses with grit and wonder—is transcendent. When your lens bends to include the chaos, the dirt, the laugh that came just after the fall, your work becomes alive.

Let the grass stain your linen. Let your toddler scream at the bee. Let your shoulder cramp from holding the moment too long. These are the brushstrokes of living art.

A Seasonal Mirror for Motherhood

Wildflower season in Oregon is a flash of glory. It arrives like a secret and vanishes like a sigh. One week, the hills are brushed in amber and coral, the next, they are brown again. It is an unrushed miracle. And it does not apologize for ending.

That brevity mirrors motherhood with aching precision. Just as flowers do not bloom for the observer, toddlers do not pose for keepsakes. They simply are—tumbling through their moment. You are the one who must keep up, not with control but with awe.

And like the wildflowers, no two days will ever be alike. One morning, your child may shriek at the sky, the next, they may press their cheek to your shoulder and whisper something only you will understand. One morn, not the petals are open; the next, they are gone.

You Don’t Need a Mythical Location

There’s a tendency to believe that powerful moments demand exotic backdrops. That, without a poppy field, you cannot create that same resonance. But that idea is a mirage. Beauty exists in your backyard. Magic lives in ditches, on sidewalks, beside grocery store lots where dandelions push through cracks.

The Silverton wildflower fields or secret nooks within the Columbia Gorge offer their poetry. But even the space beneath your laundry line can radiate marvel if you enter it with eyes hungry for wonder.

What matters isn’t the geography—it’s your gaze. Enter your environment not as a director, but as a guest.

The Unexpected Symphony of Friendship

One of the lesser-spoken truths about making memories is the role of the witness. That day, I was not alone. There was another woman beside me—brave, unfiltered, vibrant. Together, we bore witness to the joy of each other’s families. We encouraged silliness, embraced absurdity, and opened space for grief and glee alike.

Friendship, in moments like this, becomes not a backdrop but a co-author. It helps you see yourself more clearly. It anchors you when you’re tempted to rush. It reminds you to stay. To feel. To be.

And sometimes, when your gaze is weary, your friend’s lens captures what your heart almost missed.

Building Memory in the Margins

After the field was gone, I scrolled through the images, again and again. Not just to remember—but to understand. What had we made? What had we witnessed? It wasn’t just a child in flowers or a woman laughing. It was time alchemized. It was proof that magic requires nothing but attention.

These images are more than pixels. They are mnemonic anchors. Each frame holds not just the visible, but the unsaid—the smell of pollen, the tremor of excitement, the warmth of the breeze on freckled skin.

Memory is not made in major key moments—it’s constructed in the margins. In the crackle before a laugh. In the exhale after a chase. In the quiet between frames.

Conclusion

And so, the field has vanished. But its gift remains. The reminder that joy is not staged—it’s stumbled upon. That wonder needs no announcement. That presence is the only passport required for memory-making.

When you create from that space—from reverence, from spontaneity, from vulnerability—what you make endures.

The poppies are gone, yes. But in a way, they are everywhere. In the way you now notice light fracturing on your kitchen tile. In the feral laugh of your child. In your unguarded moments, when delight catches you off guard.

That’s the legacy of a vanished field: to teach you how to see again.

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