The 13^th Spring

​“My daughter was born on the thirteenth spring. Her cries were met by the deafening surge of the cicadas’ song. I wonder if she’ll end up marred like me and my father. When the cicadas return, she’ll be a teenager and I’ll be grayed and worn.” — Aaron Hardin

I experience each of these images like a small poem that I can only read the middle of, but not the beginning or the end. When I look at these pictures, I find myself cycling through them again and again in what becomes an endless loop. I can’t find where they start or stop in their revolution; future, past and present are folded together. They are beautiful, raw and melancholic. When I look at them, I am left with the echo of an ache.

- Mia D.

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