My nest.

How do you describe the distance left by years of separation. The kind of distance that doesn’t grow, but rather, still feels like the pain of that first moment of separation.  That emptiness, that feeling of something, some part of your body being ripped off and leaving an open wound, that’s what my nest represents.

It’s an empty nest.

But it’s not really empty, it’s what is left when they leave.

Over time, I’m gathering the parts that feel like they should be there.

The nest itself is made from a large basket.