Roots
My early memories are minimal—a few staccato moments without context. Having packed my life into boxes for a move several years ago, I never had the space to unpack my books and photos. I lost my tenuous connection to my own memory. I lost myself. I stopped writing.
Three years later, I bought a wall of bookshelves. I spent days unpacking, sorting and filing memories—finding snippets of myself from pre-teen to young adult in a forgotten album. I started to write again—short pieces inspired by photos—recovering insignificant days or moments which collectively add up to me.
Posts in this category are part of an ongoing project to recover and tell these memories.
“Stag beetles don’t like leylandii. It’s too acidic.”
But my mother is emphatic. She wants a log pile and she wants to use remains of the thirty foot Leyland cypresses …
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Grey mist softens the black night, turning twenty individuals—strung out in a line of silently observant walkers—into a singular mass. We move slowly in a wide circle around the edge of the island, faces down, our head torches drill into the ground …
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