Is this the first place I can find myself? Am I here watching unknowing as my grandfather sets up a tripod to take these photos tightly framing the screen of their Phillips TV? It’s July 1969 and I was born five months ago. People are walking on the moon. Is my round baby face in the room to see Walter Kronkite’s relief at those first deeply grainy but impossibly live images of those first steps on the lunar surface? No one is reflected back in these screens so attentively captured by my Grandfather’s camera. But I breathe, somewhere there in…

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