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Paperback
First published January 1, 2019
She has two memories of her father that crowd out other memories now. She returns to them, especially when she’s tired, and studies and revises them but they never change. They reify and increase in density. The sun and moon over the dissolving territory of her young adulthood. Her father gave her his old camera when she went to medical school. He was an amateur photographer and he had bought something digital. It was a Konica he’d used since he was a young man. She never used it at university and she lost it in one of the freezing flats she’d loved in in Dunedin. She never told him, never said anything to him. Afraid. When he died she found the camera boxed up with her stuff when she cleared out his house. The leather case filmed with grey mould. She’d forgotten that she’d taken it home and left it there and he’d had it the whole time, neither of them aware it was found, or, for him, that it was ever lost.