Since the very beginning, my Pappy was my person. While my parents worked, he was the one who raised me — already retired, fully present, and so intentional with his time. He poured everything he had into my sister and me. I can still picture him pulling up in his little red car, jazz playing softly through the speakers, the air filled with the smell of his favorite mints. Being with him just felt safe. It felt like home.

My grandparents’ love story is one of my favorites. My southern Pappy and my northern Grandma both ended up in Washington, D.C., and met at Reagan National Airport. My Pappy’s sister was friends with my Grandma and basically had to convince her to go on “just one date.” After that, they were inseparable — for 60 years. Sixty. Years.

For six decades, they showed us what it really looks like to grow old together. Not just the highlight reel, but the steady, everyday choosing of one another.

Now that they’ve both passed, what I have left — besides the memories in my mind.. are old boxes of photographs. I go through them more than I probably admit. They bring this overwhelming sense of comfort and closeness, like I can step back into those moments for a second. Their photos feel like home to me.

That’s why I care so deeply about what I do. Because at the end of it all, photographs are what we hold onto. They’re what tell the story. And one day, they’re what we leave behind.