In a graceful window latch, a lace curtain, are messages, love letters from the past, invocations of mothers, grandmothers, a certain kind of woman, whose loved things are revealing, touching, evocative. A certain kind of sweet sadness.

 

“Are your fingers long enough to play

    Old keys that are but echoes:

    Is the silence strong enough

    To carry back the music to its source

    And back to you again

   As though to her?

   Yet I would lead my grandmother by the hand

    Through much of what she would not understand…”

 

“My Grandmother’s Love Letters,” by Hart Crane