My fingers and my memories are sticky with apple cider. We toss the little apples into the blades, where they jump around like carbonation in soda. My dad’s calloused hands crank the century-old family heirloom in synch with laughter and the wind. Every fall, I look forward to this day of garlic-planting and cider-pressing and nostalgia. Thinking about who-knows-where I'll be next November, and trying to savor the tastes and smiles.
A compilation of photos from the past 6 years of sticky hands in truck beds, trampolines, and tree houses.