Staring at a picture of my grandmother sitting in her purple crushed fleece outfit below a birthday balloon, I guess that she is 90 or 91 years old.

Was this photo -- shot in my mother's dining room -- taken on her birthday? Looking closely I notice guests in long sleeves, a newborn's head, and my father in his Giants Jersey.

Must be mom's late November birthday. My grandmother and I shared a summer celebration. The clues: football season is warmest in the fall and runs through to the Superbowl in February. The newborn must be my brother's daughter Jillian, just a few months old and a fall arrival like rusty hues to the landscape, cooler days, and a tendency to stock the cupboards with the haste of time running out.

She is smiling, her party plate is full, and the moment is frozen just that way -- Sheldon passing behind her, crossing the hall toward the kitchen counter, my father reaching to place something on his dish, Judy with a plate in one hand, fingers of the other filled with food, and a cheek bursting with her last bite. In the corner is the crown of baby's head, dark hair swirled around the top. Grandma looks at me and I take the picture. The photo is printed from film. I can see her gold hoop earrings and necklace.