Anna Droddy

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This series reflects on the idea of what it means to have a body and love it to the bone. Watching my parents grow old has been one of the strangest and, arguably, scariest things to witness. Their bodies—which are, in a sense, my temple—began, seemingly out of nowhere, to reveal all the wear and tear of years of life. I guess, all this time, I was so busy growing up that I forgot they were too. I look back now at things I have been given, like my first car or my “Gnight Leesa” pillowcase. My parents’ presence seems to merge with these objects—objects that have also stood the test of time, and beg to be remembered in the same way. My parents’ bodies are my home, and I feel I will be lost when they are no longer there. I fear I will lose the love I was raised on and the kindness of their company. I hold tight to the things that might outlast me, in one way or another, and milk whatever comfort I can from them.


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