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.