Since the passing of my mother last winter, I have been living in a haze of sadness and only found solace retreating to my cabin in the Catskills where i started obsessively stacking up rocks. 

We didn’t bury my mum, she wanted to be incinerated. I never saw her grave. 

Someone who loves me told me it was my way of grieving and i think it makes sense. 

Piling rocks into cairns introduced a sense of order to my emotions. It became an introspective ritual, a way for me to process her absence, to build her a proper grave. 

Each stack is a visual embodiment of her memory, a tribute to her strength,  her resilience, her unwavering love, her fragility too.