Some days the rock I keep in my pocket feels like comfort. Other days it feels like a weapon.
—Cari Luna
The lesson:
memory, which once seemed impermeable, had always been a muslin, spilling the self out like water, so that one became
a new species of naïf and martyr. And us, we’re made a cabal of medieval scholars speculating how many splinters of light
make up her diminishing core, how much we might harvest before she disappears.