I think she wore a skirt most of the time so that each of us had a piece of her to hold onto. With four kids and two hands my guess is that it was a matter of logic over style. In fact, she usually threw on one of my father’s oxford shirts and for convenience’s sake, kept her hair short. I’m positive she didn’t know how well it suited her, effortlessly framing her cheekbones and showing off her deep set blue eyes. She doesn’t like her picture taken and always did glance down shyly this way when my dad tried to capture her with his ever present Canon. In those years, we fell asleep by candlelight and hushed stories, told in the magic evening hours she found at the end of tired days, during what I now know were not the best of times. Though photographer and subject have long since parted ways, on this summer day in 1986 on some New Hampshire roadside, he stepped back and saw her so perfectly, surrounded by the rumpled, dimpled four of us.