What is memory, and what does it mean to remember?
This question seems like a pressing one. Memory and experience work in such strange ways. Once an event is experienced, do we copy it and store it away for remembering later, almost like taking a picture and putting it into an album or gently tucking a book into its right place on a shelf? If memory is like this then it would dictate how we lived, for then we would try to save our memories and store them to keep them safe.
In Medieval Romance they would write about how the first impression of the beloved left an imprint at the bottom of the very heart of the lover so that the beloved was not simply stored away but rather became a very part of the lover’s innermost being. I like to think of memories in this way, even if it seems like a fanciful notion. Our memories then lodge in our hearts and our souls and impress themselves upon us so that they become a part of us. Consequently, our souls must look like dappled tapestries, pieced and woven together by different impressions, some conjuring rich joy, others deep sorrow, and still others burning anger.
This is also how I would have you read the collection of poems, stories, translations, and photographs contained within this issue. They form a rich tapestry of woven memories that detail experiences of family tensions, lover’s squabbles, reflective moments in nature, and the pure joy of artistic creation. I hope that you can find at least one piece in this collection that touches your own memories and plucks a string that makes your own heart hum like so many of these works did for me.