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.