I have never particularly enjoyed small talk. My least favorite of the many small talk questions: what do you do? What an odd question. Defining people by their income source. Some days I find myself with the urge to answer this question quite literally. What do I do? I devour books. I knit scarves, baby sweaters, baskets and bags. I witness every day life in photographs. Capturing on film the simple moments of living: playing with legos, eating lunch, planting flowers, reading the Sunday paper. I bake bread, kneading the dough by hand so I can carry the sweet yeasty scent on my fingers for the rest of the day. I sleep outdoors, counting the light of fireflies and stars. I parent my six year old nephew. We build sand castles, play Uno and Pick up Sticks, explore the city, and at the end of the day I kiss his curly, sweaty hair and sing You are my Sunshine. I build campfires on the beach, climb trees, wander through forests and walk barefoot in lake Michigan. I witness the final days of people’s lives. I sit on their beds and read Newsweek and The New Yorker knowing they will not live long enough to watch these current events play out. I hold their hand, look at their photographs, and play board games. I honor their lives and experiences, and if I am lucky I hold their stories. This is what I do.