Ancestry. Our heritage. A part of our meaning here on this planet, in this lifetime—and how- and what-ever beyond we don't know. My grandmother's journal is cloth read with cloth pages. She pins and sews. I have no memory of her (understood she was dead just after my birth, but she actually died when I was eight). I channel her...and wonder. In these pages, I seek to learn her. I reach out. This is her pin, an acorn pendulum and some dried motherwort—I dress her volume of words. Remember.