Film acts very much like I imagine a physical memory does. An exposure is taken, and an image is burned in. Everything but that image is lost and forgotten, but the image itself remains etched, real, and layered. As I left what I called home for years, I was left wondering what images got etched, and which ones would be lost. Both joy and sadness seemed present throughout my recollection, as seems to be the nature of our fickle memories.