I love going to vintage shops on Saturdays.

There’s a lot of lovely things waiting to be found, so much history to feel. Each object I touch gives me a glimpse into the memory that the object has retained as being its most emotional, so strong that its etched into the object, psychically.

This pale blue milk glass mug sits on a table nestled between the hands of a woman crying violently, but silently into it as she realizes that she’ll never see her grandma again. My hand travels over a jade ashtray, square with a gold ring surrounding the dip that once contained ashes. It was a young…