"Go to daddy, Estelle," your mom said. Then she rethought the command. "Go to the camera."
Your dad held the camera up by its wrist strap, and the silver and brushed-metal finish presented itself as a clearly delineated goalpost. You wrapped your fists around your mom's pointer fingers and stood up. "Heh," you said.
"Let's go. Let's do this," your dad said. Some five feet away, he held both of his hands up to receive you.
You continued to hold your mom's fingers, arms up like you were gripping the Texas Longhorn handlebars on a Harley Davidson. "Heh," you said, staring at the camera still dangling from your dad's pinched fingers. You started marching in place, then let your mom's fingers go.
And you took your first steps.
