Everyone in the family remembered the holiday, and everyone remembered it differently. The parents remembered the rain. The children remembered the dog on the beach. The grandmother remembered that it was the last time all six of them were in one house.
The photographs had scattered the way holiday photographs do: a print album in one home, a slide carousel in another, an unlabelled disc in a drawer, and a handful of frames on a phone that had already been replaced twice.
Gathered into a single room, they stop being duplicates and become viewpoints. The same afternoon appears from four heights, four cameras and four moods. The dull photographs — the kitchen, the car boot, the wet path to the beach — turn out to be the ones that bring the week back most completely.
The exhibit that came out of it is not a highlight reel. It is a week, in order, with the arguments left in, and with each person's version of the same day hung side by side.