Sorting old photos and cans of home movies she comes across a yellowing shot of a laughing girl her younger daughter the one who moved to Arizona or who knows where ’cause truth be told they haven’t talked in a very long time About ten in the picture probably ten when they sang together every day before the eyes the defiant shoulders the silent years when it seemed they met only on stairways passed only in doorways and the cameras were pretty much packed away She puts the photo back safe in its folder opens a can and threads the projector and the reel of film flickers to life ratcheting through from moment to moment enough pictures to create the illusion of motion enough motion to create the illusion of progress playpens and sandboxes bicycles and then the interstitial flash of white just six or eight light-struck frames dividing what came before from what will follow
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