Lately I’ve been trying to understand why I cannot let go of things. Whether it’s the two necklaces I’ve worn every day for years each from one of my grandmothers or the broken mug in my studio for going on three years because I think one day I’ll be able to fix it. The objects hold the memory, but it is not a complete image. The fragments never amount to the real thing but at least they are something. I want to keep the bones. I want to remember even if it hurts. Maybe especially because it hurts and that hurt is tangible, it’s evidence of existence.
