My internal camera took a photograph of something that I never want to fade, but I do, as the years tick by, want it's timbre to deepen and warm. It's a memory that I must never forget. It's almost a sepia glow even now.

I was at a Sunday lunch last week, a mostly family event, but a few friends were there too; one of whom I've had a quiet crush on for years, going back to the evening I first met her.

I'm sure she knows, in fact I know she knows - she mentioned it once at some one's birthday party. The heat of that particular moment has never faded, nor, indeed, have any of those my internal camera has caught either. Still strong, still clear. Everyday moments, like seeing her brush her hair, but moments nevertheless, that for some reason are imbued with something I can't properly put into words. They're profound, they move me, and that's all I know.

As last week's lunch came to an end and we broke up to leave, I saw her stroke the arm of a young baby, a delightful, charming four month old - there was something so ineffably kind, a radiancy in such a simple gesture, that I've scarcely been able to stop thinking about since I silently witnessed it. A wonderfully fugitive moment - impossible to capture and place into a coherent sentence that does n't include blissful or good-hearted or gracious. The little boy beamed. I did too.

I don't want that image to ever leave me.