About

For months, the ground would not hold. So I turned to these - small acts of looking: a line, again and again, until it steadies; a weight of paint, slow and stubborn, refusing to move until it does; a soft dust of pastel that will not stay, lifting even as it lands.

I kept returning. In the morning light, in the half-dark, in the hour when the body aches for something it cannot name.

You might be looking for answers - I don't have them. Only these fragments, these marks circling something just out of reach.

I leave them here for you as company, something to hold before it slips back into the dark.

Contact river at hello@rivergrandmother.com