When my second kid arrived, I went looking for videos of my first.

I wanted to remember what three months looked like. The funny little noises he made. What our living room felt like at 2 PM on an ordinary Tuesday. I wanted the kind of home movies our parents have. Long, unedited, aimless footage of nothing in particular that somehow caught everything.

Instead I found hundreds of eight-second clips. Just enough to prove I was holding a phone, not enough to remember being there.

Our parents hauled ten-pound camcorders onto their shoulders. They were committed, by necessity, to staying in a moment. We carry a phone in every pocket and somehow come away with almost nothing.

The cameras got better. The habit got worse. We've been trained to skim, sample, and share. Somewhere in there we stopped recording the one thing that actually mattered: time passing.

Sixty is a camera that only records if you give it sixty seconds. That's the whole premise. It forces you through the awkward pause after the smile fades, which is usually where the real footage begins. The way a laugh actually builds. The hum of an old fan in the background. The sound you forgot existed until you watch it back a decade later.

Our parents knew how to do this. Now you do too.