I remember the fireflies. We would sit on the steps of the porch and watch them light up. Collectors we were. Of fireflies, buckeyes, and hail. They were, for now, temporary exhibits on the dresser, next to grandma’s silver mirror and brush. A row of jars on display for our friend Elena to examine and proclaim them worthy of the permanent collection.

As I got older I collected memories, and those would, at times, end up in glass jars in the form of art works. Jars, books, and sewing patterns became a part of my art pieces. One artwork would make it into a group show in Soho, and I would take my second trip to New York, creating new memories.

Looking back and remembering are central themes of my artwork. Yesterday my psychiatrist brought up ECT as an option for my treatment and I felt myself detaching, my energy being pulled away from the experience of listening to him. I heard the words, but it wasn’t registering as something that applied to me. I am too high functioning. I’ve never been hospitalized, I’ve only come close once. I may have nodded my head and made some vocalization to let him know I heard him, and I acknowledged that I knew it wasn’t like One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. But surely we aren’t talking about me. The artist. I have all these jars. I’m the collector of memories.