Gary Marc Farwell

Embers from the bonfire we built on the last night of the trip. Nobody wanted to go home.

Found this lantern in a flea market in a town I can't pronounce. It still works.

The workshop at dusk. Sawdust in the last of the light. My favorite hour of the day.

A quiet street after rain. Nobody around. Just the streetlights doing their thing.

Three a.m. on the old logging road. We pulled over because none of us had ever seen the stars do that.

The tide pools at low water. There's a whole tiny world down there if you crouch and wait.

The light in this kitchen for about ten minutes every afternoon is the reason we bought the place.

My daughter's first time at the ocean. She stood exactly here and did not move for an hour.

Midwinter solstice, the shortest day. We lit every candle in the house just to spite the dark.

Driftwood we hauled back from the coast. It now lives above the fireplace, much to everyone's confusion.

We planted this willow the year we got married. It's taller than the house now.

My grandmother's garden, the summer before we sold the house. She grew these marigolds from seed every single year.

Caught this just as the fog lifted off the bay — the whole harbor went gold for about ninety seconds and then it was gone.

He fixed boats his entire life. This was his last one — we launched it the week after he passed.

Late summer, the meadow gone to seed, everything humming. You could hear the field before you could see it.

First snow. The dog had never seen it before and spent twenty minutes trying to catch flakes.