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I have never moved.

Well, that is, my family of five – mother, father, sister, brother, and me – has never physically lifted the roots it has planted in New Jersey to live elsewhere.  I am grateful for this, and I realize this also makes us something of an anomaly in today’s world.  When I return home from school, it is to the same house in which I was raised, the house across the street from the elementary school I attended (though now it bears a different name) and the church where I received my First Communion.

It is a house paneled in leaf-green siding and ringed by a white picket fence, nestled on a quiet hilltop in a town with which few people are familiar.  A house where sunlight warms icy windows and pools on the carpet under your shoes, where pillows are thrown haphazardly on couches and a cat occasionally tries to join you at the dinner table.

I recently purchased a wonderful new camera.  I had been saving up for one, spending countless hours researching a DSLR that I could afford without bursting a hole in my bank account.  I’ve had it for about a week and half now.  Unsurprisingly, photographing my life within this house has become a gently thrilling exercise in capturing the lovely little ordinary things I see both within its walls and those which I see from the windows.  Here are just a few.  There will be more to come.

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