Photos capture moments in time.

There is a little girl with red bows in her curly brown hair leaning over to kiss her baby brother in the bassinet. A toddler sits on a rock with a fishing pole. Seeing these glossy pictures evokes emotions of happiness and joy.

On any given day at the portrait studio, as the photographer, I can catch these moments with the click of the camera.

Some parents have clear ideas about what they want in a photo session. "Nothing frilly. Simple," many moms will tell me. I then provide them with a white or black background.

Others want to use a prop -- the tiny chair that has been in the family for generations or the blanket that belonged to a relative long gone. Some tell me, "You are the professional. Whatever you think will be best is fine."

The smallest son fit in the tub. The older boy sat next to the tub in a pair of shorts. Both boys had their shirts off to convey a real bathtub scene. I placed a towel here and a rubber duckie there.

Then I did my thing-- working on smiles and making sure the kids were looking at the camera. I felt we got some cute pictures.

Later, as the photos were viewed at the proofing station on a computer monitor, the mother said something that made things both clear and sad.

Why was the shirtless bathtub scene so vital to her?

"I wanted to get his chest," she said, her eyes on the monitor. "He's to have open heart surgery next month."

I gulped. And this young child would have a scar on his pure small chest. The mother was capturing the last of her son's flawless brown-skinned chest. I understood because I knew about scars. My son had one on his neck, where his malignant tumor grew and where the knife from many surgeries had entered.

The next thing I knew I'd told this mother about my son Daniel.

I don't know why I was surprised at my tears. In the eight years since Daniel's death, hadn't I learned tears are never far?

All photographs are not created equally. The ones of this young child will be looked at in a different light than the ones of his younger brother.

I know these things.

I cherish all the photos of my four children. But the ones of Daniel hold more for me. When I see them, there is no way I can fool myself. The ones of him are not just of a cute kid. They are of a child who never grew up, a child with his name on a tombstone. A child I wish I could bring into the studio today and tomorrow to make laugh and smile.

Under the Expanded Sky

Educating Merna

Crying With My Ancestors

Opening Grief as a Gift

Living Life from the Graveyard

Surviving the Tinsel

Trees of the Ice Storm

Is There Laughter After Death?

Whatever Happened to the Old?

Out of My Comfort Zone

I Am Not Cheese

As The Sixth Year Approaches

The Dirty Green Van

Judging Pain?

Grief Meets the Answering Machine

Closets, Revisited

Unwinding with a Pen

There is Nothing Wrong with You!

Scared to Death of Dying and Denying Grief

The Night the Christmas Tree Fell

Baking Bereavement Bread

For the Love of Mothers

Bereaved Eyes

A Wealthy Life

Fragrance of Marigolds

Looking at my photos of Daniel can be, of course, emotional.

A few days later a mother came to the studio with an infant. The mother asked if there would be any problem with taking pictures of her daughter. "She's blind," the mother said.

The child's eyes were shut tight. My usual "look over here" didn't work although I mistakenly said it once.

Some parents don't like the photos of their kids. "That is not his good smile," they will say after the camera has snapped. "He has a smirk," a mother will explain, even though I think the child looks adorable. What if your eyes can't smile at all? This little girl's eyes were never seen in any of the pictures. Yet her mother ordered many of the photos.

Capturing the smiles and laughter is what I like to do. I also feel very humbled when during my shift I get to take the photos of the child who will soon lose her hair when the chemo treatments start, or of the preemie just out of the hospital.

Hopefully these pictures will last a long time and the children in them will grow up to be healthy and joyful.

But if not, the photos will be there to frame a life cherished and remembered. The life may be over, but the memories are captured. They will always speak powerfully of eternal love.

I look up from the eight-by-ten in my hallway of my two-year-old in a suit and clip-on tie. Oh, Daniel, even though you got chewing gum on your lapel on the way to the portrait studio that day, you look so perfect.

I smile at my boy, this child who never grew up. My wounded heart feels pain. Yet, I value every ounce of that photo and all the memories from the past it brings.

Yes, oh, yes, I know about the power of these things.