I don’t know how to explain it.
You burn into my memory like a memory is supposed to: Six am waking up. Grandma bringing in a cup of hot tea. My skates on a towel in the corner of the room, waiting for me to finish my tea, pick them up and go to practice. Daily… for years and years and years.
I still skate on those skates, now just for fun, but tea always starts the day.
It’s my ritual and yet not a ritual at all.
It’s my pleasure and my passion.
I wish grandma was still here. She was the sweetest of peas.
Postcard: What’s the story, morning glory. Collage, acrylics, inks.