I try to decipher their stories – unthreaded dots and dashes, dust motes glimpsed in the sunshine beyond a photographer’s shoulder.
Is their business here finished? I don’t think so. A shirt lies in a mending basket, waiting to be repaired. This little girl needed a button in her hair.
What they tell is this: My heart becomes fuller in the very use by which it exhausts itself. Her story is still being written.