I don’t remember the car ride here, but I remember your hand in mine as we walked inside. It was warm, soft, familiar. You let go for just a second to smooth my hair, tucking that one piece behind my ear like you always do. You do that a lot.

The lady with the camera says she wants to take pictures of us together. You smile and tell me it will be fun, and I believe you. It always is when I’m with you.

You sit down, and I climb into your lap without thinking. It’s my favorite place to be. You wrap your arms around me, and I breathe you in. You smell like home. Like the vanilla candle you always light in the kitchen, like the shampoo you use when we take baths together, like you. I press my face into your shoulder, and you laugh. I like that sound. I want to hear it again.

The lady with the camera says to just be with each other.

So I tell you a secret—I love you more than ice cream.

You laugh again. Click.

She asks me what I love most about you. I don’t even have to think about it. “Everything.”

You kiss my cheek, and your lips are soft. Click.

You tell me a story, one I’ve heard a million times but always want to hear again. It’s the one about how small I was when I was born. How you counted my fingers and toes, how you watched me breathe, how you whispered that you loved me before I even knew what love was. You say I used to wrap my tiny hand around your finger and never let go. I still don’t want to let go. Click.

The lady with the camera shows us one of the pictures on the back of her camera. I see me, and I see you, and I see love.

You don’t always like to be in pictures, but I hope you’ll always be in them with me. One day, when I’m big and you’re older, I’ll look at these pictures, and I’ll remember the way it felt to be held by you. I’ll remember the way you looked at me, the way you loved me. I’ll remember us.