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  • the thing that matt said phoebe said (his daughter phoebe, eight, a gymnast) about the lampshadow particular to their living room ceiling. our shadow, she said, or something like that. they were lying on the couch. she said this as though she has known this particular shadow all her life and I should too, said matt. of course, we said, phoebe has always known that shadow. part of the known world of a child who like a cat will lie on the rug in her house and note each curious body of light in particular corners of particular rooms, filigrees dots car headlights, traveling or stationary she assumes you all have always known them also. as long as she has lived she has lived here. and this house as though it has always been and has always been the world.

    (all this about permanence and houses and children as archivists of light and shadow was said after the early summer dinnerparty sunset when we gave the baby a bath in the kitchen sink, matt holding our baby curled on her back in his two hands & she gazing up past all of us at the lamplit ceiling)

    image: one of our shadows and my father as a boy, and a knitted horse
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