I am terrible about framing photos. I have stacked bundles of photos squirreled away in plastic bags, carry-on luggage, totes. Bricks of empty frames and albums line a closet in my house, waiting for their fulfillment. They are my cobwebbed optimism; my icons of hopeful future craftiness.
One photo, however, is framed in matte gold; a gilded memory: my g…
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