My mother is a cartographer by training. [I am not, so this is not an inexact description.] It is possible to look through a lens down at a photograph of a landscape and the shadows of the clouds on the mountains will reveal the time of day that the picture was taken. Capturing a still image of a transient shadow of something almost insubstantial creates a permanent time stamp.
The babies nursery has one wall painted purple, the others still cream. One giant giraffe. Two dressers. One baby bath. Drawers full of baby clothes. A gift bag full of sympathy cards. A permanent time stamp.
I struggle with the urge to finish the nursery. To hang their names on the wall, to reorder the returned cribs. To unfold the handmade blankets. To have a room finished and permanent. To further encrypt the message currently stamped on the room, to make the message unavailable to anyone without the appropriate lens, without the key. And then to loose the key, to hold the nursery as a marker for them, of them. To deny the message entirely.