I have five photographs hanging on my wall. I chose them deliberately. Not once has someone asked me why.
The first is when the fog moved like water through the hills with delicate elegance, graceful enough to be the ocean's tide. I watched it with him. It was the last time he kissed me and meant it.
The second is when I realized that what brings you somewhere isn't always the memory that you leave with in the end. It is the most beautiful sound I will ever hear. It is the colors I haven't seen since.
The third was a gray foggy day somewhere on the coast of the country, a coast I had never seen before.  It was the moment I realized I would be there the following September.
The fourth may look like a picture, but it is not. And I didn't take it. Its a ticket to a show that was more than a show, to see a writer whose words resonate in my bones. It reminds me of New Hampshire.
The fifth was on the road trip back. Where he kept telling me to stop whenever I saw something interesting, even though he was tired of driving. It was when I started loving photography again.
These are not just pretty pictures. These do not just fill empty space on a wall.