I was blessed with an idyllic childhood - homeschooled bliss in the lush green of Vermont. My parents were, and remain, crunchy-granola Christians, my siblings little headstrong balls of energy that have grown into bigger headstrong balls of energy in cleaner clothes. Over Christmas of 2015 Dad culled a couple of hours of home video footage from the days of video he's got stored up and we traveled back in time to the spring and summer of 1997.
Beth was nine, I was six and Julia had just turned five. Avery was on the way - the footage shows a very pregnant Mom supervising tiny bike riders, combing blond hair, and resting on the couch before May 13th, Mother's Day 1997, when my brother came into the world. Later that summer, after my seventh birthday, we went to Cape Cod on vacation.
Watching the footage that Christmas Eve night captivated me. Forgotten snapshots flashed across the screen - a blue tulle ballet recital, my father dozing in a patch of sunlight, my mother a windswept goddess on a brown beach stretching into forever. I borrowed the film and pulled out a collection of stills - fleeting moments that evaporated into giggles, tears, screams or sighs. A low-resolution memory of the Kravitz family.