I’ve been sitting with this session for a couple of weeks now, the words slow to arrive.
As I write this, my brother-in-law and his family are already settled in Georgia, adjusting to full-time life a state away.
Now, in the driveway of their old house, sit the unfamiliar minivan and truck of a new family.
It is a sight we will face often, passing by on our way to visit Granny and Grandad just two houses down. The transition has been hard on everyone; the new reality has not fully sunk in.
These photos were taken two weeks before the big move. The last time they had visited this peach farm, they were in a different period of anticipation, awaiting the arrival of their firstborn. We all enjoyed a warm May day together back then, my sister-in-law glowing in the sunflower field.
This visit held a distinct heaviness. Mommy and Daddy were putting on a happy face to cover up the more complex, painful emotions hidden within.
Arriving a little early, the session pushed up against the hard cutoff of bedtime. The light was intense, sharper and more demanding than my usual golden hour sessions.
Ellie ran ahead of us all, eager to see the sunflowers. She stepped right into the rows, the stalks swaying high above her head.
Mason was carried by his dad, reaching out to explore the rough flowers with his hands.
Soon the kids discovered the sunflower seeds could be tickled off the heads. Ellie went to work sowing seeds into the dirt for the next growing season.
For this session, I encouraged them to just be present. I didn’t ask for poses and prompted very little, simply tracking what naturally unfolded.
They know my playbook well enough by now that they soon were lifting Mason high into the air.
Farther down the field, both kids crowded onto an antique bicycle.
Ellie perched on the back while Mason grabbed the handlebars.
A tractor nearby caught their attention next.
Ellie claimed the driver’s seat while Mason was held beside her. When she grew bored and went off to harvest more seeds, Mason took her place at the steering wheel.
When I first arrived that afternoon, I stopped by the farm stand to drop off the location fee. The farmer asked if it would be a problem if he ran the irrigation in the orchard. Knowing how magical that fine misting can look in the sunlight, I told him please go ahead.
The kids were immediately drawn to the water. Ellie ran straight into the mist, soaking her dress.
Both kids searched for a peach. Ellie found one ripe on the branch. Mason picked up a rotting fruit from the ground.
We all took shelter in the shade and cooling canopy, a relief from the heat of the open sun.
After a while, Ellie asked to return to the flowers.
With the sun lower, the field was softer now, more inviting. We clipped a single stem for her. It instantly became a face, a wand, and a lightsaber.
Insects were heavy in the rows– honeybees, wasps, carpenter bees, and ladybugs. For the most part, they ignored us, with the exception of one wasp. It stopped its foraging to stare directly at my lens.
I took it as a warning and stepped away.
By then, the kids were showing their first signs of fading.
I asked Ellie if she wanted to see a Cinderella carriage, and she lit up.
We crossed the dirt road to the other side of the farm.
With a John Deere tractor nearby, the group split off into girls and boys.
At the Cinderella carriage, Ellie became a fairytale princess.
She danced and curtsied before adopting a statue as her Prince Charming. Her mom played Rapunzel, a guest at the ball.
She ran around until she lost her shoe and finished the evening as the driver of the carriage right before it turned back into a peach at the stroke of midnight.
Meanwhile, Mason locked onto the tractor. He sat on the seat, holding the steering wheel and waving to people as they passed by.
That is where we ended the evening together.
Golden hour was just reaching its peak.
I stayed behind, letting my mind wander as I walked the farm alone.
I knew this transition was going to be brutal on both me and my daughter. In a single move, both of our best friends were suddenly 10 hours away.
Over the years, we talked about so many plans for the girls. With both of us facing fertility struggles, we believed we would each have only one daughter– that they could be raised like cousin-sisters. Mason was a happy surprise, and I was glad Ellie would have a sibling to grow up alongside.
For my daughter, though, that shared childhood won’t be happening here.
Last weekend, I turned 36. All of the maternity clothes and baby items I’d been holding onto were loaded in the car for donation. The door to that chapter is now permanently, quietly closed.
Going through the gallery, I kept returning to a single image– Ellie concealed in the peach tree, her small shape merging with the light of the irrigation mist.
And one phrase keeps coming up, again and again.
She called her sister.