Such a thing, the face and eyes, stuck there on paper, next to the rest. He danced for the camera, getting down on film strips, cassette tapes, boxed up and kept forever, dust and a coat of wear. A swing, a white tint, the sun coming down lovely. His mother stopped and stared through the lens, moved it slightly. Street bustle and the sound of horns. Obelisk and grand cathedral. Booming, concrete and pillared, with the blossoms, pink, white in the bend, landing on the water and floating across. Paddleboats with his father, bald and a cap, shorts and a t. Pushing, punching out the pedals, the District in spring.