Then she had been a fiancee, a young wife, and a mother, and she had discovered that these words were far too small ever to contain the experience.

A moment might be a thousand different things.

This was her life. Not the life she had once dreamed of, not a life her younger self would ever have imagined or desired, but the life she was living, with all its complexities. This was her life, built with care and attention, and it was good.

Away from the bright motion of the party, she carried her sadness like a dark stone clenched in her palm.

A moment was not a single moment at all, but rather an infinite number of different moments, depending on who was seeing things and how.

Twin threads ran through her: fear and excitement.

He carried Paul inside and up the stairs. He gave him a drink of water and the orange chewable aspirin he like and sat with him on the bed, holding his hand...This was what he yearned to capture on film: these rare moments where the world seemed unified, coherent, everything contained in a single fleeting image. A spareness that held beauty and hope and motion - a kind of silvery poetry, just as the body was poetry in blood and flesh and bone.