I realize that “The Golden Years” typically refers to the later stages of life, the last ones in a life well-lived, but at the same time, any parent loves this type of photo of their kids. Chubby cheeks, divine late afternoon sunlight, the proverbial halo effect outlining the children’s heads. Golden years, defined so in retrospect, by picture-perfect photographs.

In this one, saturations of color. Passion is unbridled; the older one holds onto the younger one with easy possession, as if she’s kissing her own daughter. Maternal is how she feels toward the younger one. Being sisters makes it all the more special.

The younger one is along for the ride of life, the ride of love. She’s just beginning to viscerally form her identity, her currency in the world — the snuggle-ee, the youngest. She doesn’t yet know what she wants, or if she wants this, but she knows that she can’t argue with pure love.

She will be held most of her life, starting now. Because of now.

The photo was taken in a most magical place, my parents yard in southern New Jersey. For so long this was a corner of the world I inhabited on the regular. Me, home from college, then me and my cat, then me and my husband and cat, then our young family. My retired mom and step-dad, always doing yard-work, crosswords, watching TV, reading, eating. For so long, this was all the vacation we wanted or needed, in a home away from home among people who loved us. Simple times with people who acquired a tiny kids table for the kitchen and a permanent crib in the bedroom, all to make life easier — to encourage us.

My stepdad was a master gardener. An acerbic, curmudgeonly man, he had no shortage of trouble getting along with other people, but he could make a place beautiful. His flowers popped in color and rolled through the seasons in symphony with one another. His vegetables grew to twice their regular size. This bounty of the land was due to his magic touch, and probably Miracle Gro.

One night in 2019, he fell on his way to the bathroom, hitting his head on the sink. My mother, unable to lift him up herself, wrote to a senior living home in Maine the next morning. Over the course of three days, while he was in the hospital for tests, she had secured a spot at the Maine facility and put their house on the market.

I wonder if this felt like quite a betrayal to him. When I brought this up to my mother, she, frail from years of cancer, said plainly, “I don’t know. But I knew then that we needed more help.”

I was grateful that she’d figured that out, that I hadn’t had to twist arms. So many of my friends live with angst because their parents won’t give up the car keys or adapt their lives in deference to the help they clearly need. But, two months later, this magical home was sold, under market and as-is, in order for them to get out as soon as possible. My stepdad’s life would end a year later, my mother’s in less than two. But just before that, this picture proves it; we had these golden years; my children, outlined in sunlight, and my parents, invisible in the picture, their sun setting.

.