Josie's House
Josie's house is a metaphorical place. It's a space that doesn't exist physically, but we are speaking across and between time. We are writing to one another, though mostly me to her. We are stitching, collaging, quilting; cutting and pasting pasts to present. Juxtaposing her words against mine. And the present against the past. Uncovering, excavating and weaving together what has already been written with what is left to say.
She never owned a house, though she did own several VW vans. But in every home she lived in, she created a kind of sanctuary, welcoming people with an openness and care that extended beyond cinnamon-sugar-raisin-bread toast. Sleep over if you want, anyone is welcome, we can make room. We always had extra bedding and sleeping mats.
As I try to remember the perfect lullaby to allow her to sleep soundly, I am also trying to collect the important memories.
This is a public-facing writing project that will eventually be edited into a book about my mother — Josie Saracino.
— Laki, Josie's youngest daughter
