This summer I am sorting through spaces my father inhabited before his spring death. Spring + Death; my mind refutes the pairing. His absence is becoming more familiar but the process is slow. It is staggering to see his use of materials designed to bind: strings, paper clips, rubber bands. I remember them as a part of him, the way someone would carry a pair of glasses. Attempts to secure or hold together the fragments of his life, our lives. Trying to attach. Connect. I won’t pretend to understand my father in this way but I do see a little bit of his immigration story in these materials. Romania -> France -> Canada -> USA.