I was never aware that Loon was a bird, let alone an object. I guess these water-birds have swum their way over family photo boxes, miscellaneous jewelry, and travel documents into my hands for me to set them loose in my room. Now holding it in my palm, it swims slowly along my skin as I make my way back to my Dad to ask what this thing I’m holding is. My aunt had story upon story about random cut-up bedsheets, or broken jam jars, or playboy magazines from the 70s that she would share with us as we de-cluttered and repaired this old house. We used to play in the backyard and pray before dinner in the living room. It would seem like we’d explored every crevice of this house, peeking under beds that we didn’t sleep in or hiding in moth-infested closets, but through this extraction process, I’d realized how little I really knew. Maybe it’s nice to have stories to tell about why a thing matters, told to you from someone that matters to you, but when there is no story to tell, we have to conjure our own. My dad said he wasn’t sure what it was or why we had it, he understood more that my Grandma just liked to have things around her. I guess she just was fond of the idea of having things because she liked them. I guess I do something similar to that too. So, I collected a handful of tiny objects, ones that glow or ones that sing, and I brought them home with me, to create a new story out of them. 

– Cole

Relationship:  Child of im/migrant Child of im/migrant