As much as I like the framing, lighting and coloring, it isn't the technical aspects of the photo that make it stick in my mind. Rather, like so many other pics in my archives, it serves as a signpost to my life. Simply put, when I look at pictures, they take me back to certain moments in time.
This was a hard moment, a bitterly cold winter afternoon when I was trying to keep the kids occupied. Debbie was in Montreal to be with her hospitalized mom. Things were not good, and I spent a good amount of the time trying to juggle the realities of the day-to-day life of our kids with the unreality of dealing with the news from back home.
So we went to the park by the river, fed the ducks, and played on the empty playground. It was a grey day, and the cold wind blew right through our coats and froze my fingers when I tried to take pictures. But I kept taking pictures anyway, because for some reason I didn't want to forget the day, didn't want to lose what it felt like to be in this place with them.
Deb's mom passed away later that week, and if I could go back to this day when we had her, I would. Instead, I'm left with a two-dimensional photo and memories of my kids playing on the frozen playground, their voices echoing throughout the deserted park. It'll have to do.