Grace
By the third morning after Christmas, my camera feels less like something that I’m holding and more like something I’m carrying with me—like it is an extension of my hands, my eyes, even my breath. It rests against my hip when I walk through the house, the strap worn soft from years of use and recent rediscovery. I barely notice its weight anymore. I only notice when it’s not there.
The house has settled into that quiet lull that comes after the holiday rush has dissipated. Wrapping paper is gone, plates have been washed and stacked away until the next holiday, and the tree lights are no longer the main event—just a soft, familiar glow that lingers in the corners of every room. Everyone moves a little slower now. Easier. Like the whole place is finally letting itself rest.
I’ve be
