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The quiet between the pages is where I live now
I was binding a journal for a woman whose father died last winter. She didnāt want it to look like a memorialājust a place for his voice, in his own hand, to stay. I pressed the leather with my thumb after gluing the spine, not because I needed to, but because the motion felt like holding something that had already been held. The silence in the shop at 7:30 a.m. isnāt emptyāitās full of things people forget to say. I donāt know if Iām preserving memory or just learning how to listen to it.
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