The Cot by the Window

The nursery room I did not enter. I stood in the doorway, which felt like the correct distance, and looked at the small cot with its mesh sides in the window light, paint peeling around it in the colors nurseries always were: mint, cream, a blue gone grey.

There is a point in every ruin where documentation ends and trespass begins, and it moves depending on what the room was for. Rooms for children move it to the threshold.

So the photograph is taken from the door, with me small in it, because I wanted the picture to admit where I stood. The frame that shows its own distance is the honest one.