people have a knack for remembering the views from windows.
if I know anything about art, it’s that it looks better when it’s framed. the bathroom had a tiny window and my mom said that before they burned down the house, she knew she wanted to document the view.
I recognize the trees and this part of the fence, but I’ve only ever seen it from the ground floor; frameless. the house and the bathroom were gone before I was born and there hasn’t been running water for at least twenty years, but pieces of wood from windows and doors are still turning up. its strange to think about those scraps floating in the air, opening up the second floor windows of an invisible house.
mom, her mom, her mom’s mom, and all their sisters and husbands looked across that roof and down at that fence that when I was smaller I used to squeeze through. pictures like this flatten us. looking through this sort of frame, from any side at any time, all of us get to be ghosts.