Sara Eliza Johnson

At the end of the memory, you forgot to close the door. You hear the neighborhood children playing hide-and-go-seek outside in the yard, calling Come out, come out, as if still looking for you. But where are you now? Is this your house? Did you place the cherries on the counter? Is that blood or …

I used to take photos of everything because I couldn’t remember. I took photos of the first crocus of spring, clasped hands and snow on eyelashes, a dog on the street with sad eyes. One night, I held my phone up to a Blood Moon and took photo after photo, all of them wrong. We’re …