Here's some old, dead print. It would be printed on dead trees. And soon thrown into landfills, where there are occasionally dead bodies, dead grass clippings, broken plastic chairs and live dogs.
My parents are more talented than I am, even though I know so much more than they do. I know big things. Ideas, philosophy, art, culture. They know small things. Woodcraft and needlework. And yet all the things that I can make will disappear. Every contribution I make to the world is a drop in a river with a fast current. No one will remember my Foucauldian deconstruction of Faulkner’s story. But the cradle my father built--someone will want that. The bedspread crocheted by my mother’s hands--someone will run their fingers over it and ask if it was really made by one woman with string and a metal stick. And I’ll say yeah, it was. And they’ll say that she must’ve been an amazing woman. And I’ll say yeah, she was.
Site design by Elizabeth Daniel, sturgeon surgeon, in 1859.
Font EB Garamond