As from our hearts our memory breaks us.

I think I have decided my fate.

Well, not my fate, but the fate of my work. 

My photography.

I haven't felt like this in a very long time.

I haven't FELT in a very long time.

I think I gave up feeling. I pushed it aside, pushed it down. I jammed it into the corners of my memory where such bad things go, that you forget about it until it comes––inevitably––back to the surface, back into your life.

Maybe this is my opportunity. My art's opportunity.

Maybe this is a way to finish My Grief.

I like that this font mimics the typewriter font from Nonie.

I still can't believe they let me have her poems.

Anyways.

I saw a photo of Nana that I hadn't seen, maybe even forgotten about, for a long while. I don't even know if I took it.

I miss her.

I miss them both.

I miss all of them.

Sometimes,

I can't believe they are all gone.

Gone.

G  o  n  e.

Such as a puff of wind, but not even a puff a wind you can see escape on a wintry day... Just a puff of wind. Noticed by your chest, overlooked by most everyone else.

I wonder if Nonie would have liked my writing.

I wonder if Nana told me the truth of what she thought of my work. I think she did. Because she wrote that in my journal about my project. I don't think she would have lied to my journal, let alone me.

It's like...

I was able to properly grieve for Nonie. With art. With the beauty of my art.

But...

I was NOT able to finish grieving for Nana.

 

Grieving for –

I used to think that experiencing death made me stronger. But now lots of people have also experienced death, and I no longer feel so special. I know how that sounds, trust me.

Have I said everything I've needed to say? Definitely not.

Will I continue this work as best as I can? I hope so.

I hope so.

LM

// read more about the project As from our hearts our memory breaks us.