Mom brought one item with her from Bulgaria—a box of family photos dating back to the 1920s. I know little of that side of the family, of who remains. Many of the faces are unfamiliar, left with a photo for a story, except for baba & mom. Particularly in one portrait, I couldn't differentiate them. [dashtehri] means daughters in our language.

An oyster split in two, repetitively stranded with locks which mirror the length of mine & mom's. One dark, one light, as our hair is. Similarly they bear resemblance to the martenitsa in Bulgarian culture, an adornment consisting of 2 dolls, red & white.

The book can fit between the shells, but lives inside its box. For the spine, kid silk mohair is knotted through 3 holes, 2 white & 1 gray thread. The contents are reconstructed journalings about our relationship dynamic, between all 3 of us. Words unsaid, yet undoubtedly shared. Also questions. Because of the vellum's translucency, each sentence can be read alone & combines with the page underneath. The last 4 pages are portraits; baba & mom around the same age, mom & I when we were younger. [2025].

you were a daughter

to a mother

[also a daughter]