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  • In a few months we will be moving house.

    Leaving behind the wooden floors which echoed and amplified the cries, the singing, the running round and round. The very loud toy piano.

    Leaving behind the big french windows through which he stared for hours and hours as his newborn eyes learned to make sense of the world. He was particularly fascinated by the beautiful blue California sky.

    Leaving behind the nursery where they were suckled, and where they still sleep at night. When they couldn't sleep, I would walk them around and around the upstairs, and sometimes, when that didn't work, I would lie on the floor next to the crib, holding their little hands until they finally settled.

    There is a special way to finish walls, working the plaster into a precise imperfection of scrapes and dents and craters. There is probably a name for this style, but I don't know it. That's how they did our house. When I look at the walls, I see animals, space ships, islands, people, birds, fish, worlds. In the bathroom there's a wolf. In the hall, a pair of eyes, and the North American continent as it will be in 85 million years. These unintentional artworks are everywhere, filling and penetrating the house like the bugs in an embassy, binding it together like the Force.

    I can take my family, my children, their memories and mine, and move to the new house. I want to take the little wall-shapes too. They are a part of the house, and a part of me.

    If I photograph them all, will I be content to leave? How about if I only photograph half of them? Or ten? Or just one, lone wolf?
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