pocket of grief

2026
linocut printed zine on vellum paper
2 × 2 ⅞ inches

The love of my life (my cat, Emi) died in 2024. My therapist tells me that my grief is complicated, colloquially and clinically speaking. I still don’t really know how to do it, and I also know that I’ll be doing it for the rest of my life.

My grief wants me to stay in place forever. Maybe I’ll feel safer if I tether myself to a reality that exists only in retrospect. But I also know that I can’t heal if I never let my body move forward in life. How do I appreciate my sadness while also giving myself permission to be happy again?

This zine is about Emi, but it’s ultimately for me. I carved each page by hand, then printed them backwards on vellum paper, so the ink you see is on the other side. It’s small enough to keep in your pocket.

The text reads, “Will I find this again? Quiet Sundays, morning light pouring in. When I had you, I had the whole world. I carry you with me as I keep looking.”