Roots run deep for Kate and Michael in a small town that hugs Boston’s north shore. They live in a lovely maze of suburbia; grand old homes lined up like creamy dominoes, anchored with sweeping white front porches and patches of saturated green lawn. We went to Deer Island where the city lingered like wooden blocks on the water’s edge. And the hum of Logan’s airplanes overhead was like white noise; huge birds momentarily blocking the sun. Peeks of silver water glistened while enormous boats inched by.

I leave jobs like this shaking, nervous I did the subjects justice. In awe of the tenderness. Or flat-out beauty. Like Kate’s straight, strong features. And mother’s razor-like focus. Or Michael’s steady gaze. Immense hands swooping up their babe. Somewhere between their house and my home I found myself pulled over in a parking lot, flipping like mad through the photos, hoping for stills without a filter or haze of sweetness. Crossing my fingers for just a few raw moments which define a little piece of who they are.