I get itchy before a shoot — 
the word itself is anxiety-provoking —
photographing families, 
the responsibility of capturing them 
at this moment in time —
a tangible memory they’ll turn to 
in joy and in sorrow — 
weighs heavily on my mind.

To calm my nerves, I go through
my kit: two camera bodies, lenses,
a dust blaster, memory cards,
flash trigger, two lights
and a bounce, all in a case 
with wheels I pull behind me, 
luggage-style, as if I were traveling 
to someplace exotic,
the Mediterranean or Bali

and not, as it turns out, a postage stamp 
of a backyard that reeks of dog shit
in a bad neighborhood,
with no shade from the overwhelming sun, 
a father who hasn’t shaved and can’t believe
he’s giving up part of his Saturday for this,
a mother who’s so visibly over 
their two small children behaving
like tyrants, her pockets emptied
of gummies and Goldfish, 
that she can only muster a sarcastic grin 
when I say, in my cheeriest lilt
the incantation to make it all better:

Okay, everyone … now smile.