I remember visiting my mother at the hospital when my brother was born. I was five, hands clenching paper puppets. I can still see my mother’s papery white gown trailing the floor, and feel the softness of her skin and copper hair. I didn't know how much my world was changing.
At six weeks, Crosby is everything lovely and new: lips tightly woven to a braided knot, and liquid eyes, black as berries. So much newness to capture, yet it was Katama that had me on this day. Black-lashed eyes, wide, and watching. Brain working: new, baby. New, BABY. Her fingers fluttered everywhere, and limbs were like fluid, spilling into each photo. Trapezed between her mom and dad she sang Crosby the ABC’s, and wanted to drive small cars all over his body. It’s a big job to make sense of such a small thing, not a cat, or a toy, but a brother. She wears her love, full and bright, on her sleeve.