Everywhere I go, Camera hanging from my neck. Waiting for the perfect shot, The perfect memory, To capture. “It’s not just a hobby, but a passion,” As most people would say. It’s an attempt to hold on to the memories That will only exist in the photo thereafter. Capturing the children, so innocent, And the adults who have lost that virtue of infancy. Showing life from 2 different perspectives With so many more being possible. It’s taking an ordinary object And putting my own special twist on it. Each photo showing insight into its subject, And for that brief moment Capturing its soul and revealing its true emotions. It’s not just a photograph, It’s not just art, It’s what I’m experiencing the moment the shutter clicks. The photograph of the girl staring off into space, That leaves you wondering, “What is she thinking?” The photograph of the two-year-old child gently holding her newborn brother, Whom years later she’d be fighting with over the remote. The photograph of a child observing a spider in its web, Finding it so interesting and exciting. And the mother cautiously standing overhead, Because she knows the real menace of it. The photograph of the two little girls, Arms around each other’s shoulders, Who at age seven were inseparable, But by high school had different groups of friends and never talked. The photograph of teenagers gathering around the campfire, The last summer before they head off to college And go their separate ways in life. And in the end all there is Is a photograph of me. With my camera still around my neck In a room filled with photo albums of my life’s acquaintances; The only memories that I have of them and my adolescent freedom. And in the middle of the wall hangs a single picture. The one of the girl staring into space, And her thoughts still remain a mystery. For as Ansel Adams once said, "A true photograph need not be explained, Nor can it be contained in words."