There are no formal pictures of my wedding. Which is fine, as it was probably more resplendent in my imagination than in real life. It was not a cost saving decision, as the honorarium standards in the early eighties were double digits, not triple and certainly not quadruple. I still feel like I owe the musicians a stipend. As it was my mother pawned her silver to fund the day, which included ten carrot cakes, and the dress which I made of red and white wool. We picked the roses from a neighbor's garden and celebrated in my aunt's back yard. 

But our children's weddings have all been captured on film. Or is it even film anymore? Maybe it is just numbers. And pixels. 

Our daughter's photo gallery arrived on my computer last night, a moderate eight hundred images. It has been my pleasure to browse through them several times, lingering at the laughter, and gold. The leaves, and the rings were burnished. The couple is stunning: by the water, surrounded by trees, at the reception, crying over vows. 

Why do we take pictures? Is it because the events whisk by so quickly we cannot hold on to them? Looking at them again, and again allows me to eat my wedding cake and have it too. Though I should mention that there was no cake. Just apple cider donuts. Which were delish. 

The pictures bring feelings to my throat faster than a shooting star, or a bunch of baby chicks. This daughter was once my baby, snuggled under my arms when the wind picked up on a Floridian beach, or listening to just one more book on the couch before bedtime. But now, and for the long stretch of decades ahead she is someone else's to keep warm and to be warmed by.