Digging the mine, persisting, despairing, bringing up crumbs.
Sometimes just a few ash.
A sentence, a smell, an impression.
So fleeting that we must seize it immediately before it escapes with its wings and falls back into the stubborn dust of oblivion.
Memory is really tricky when we choose to let it sleep and then, on impulse, try so hard to wake it up.
The harvest of these little nothings extracted from the depths gives us hope.
Will they allow us to venture further, through the cascading process of memories?
To discover
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As if they were just waiting for this, these bits of life, to be called back to the light.
One leading us - with luck - to another miraculously reconstituted.
And here we are, suddenly amazed by their freshness.
So Isabelle Monnin's harvest about her loving and beloved grandmother.
A
“little round lady with curly, short, gray hair, sweet face, glasses with thin metal frames”
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