BOXES in the ATTIC

I must have been around 6 or 7 when I discovered the humid, over-stuffed playground in my grandparent’s attic on Lone Oak Road in Nashville, Tennessee. My parents were on a trip to Europe, and had left their four daughters with our grandparents.

My time in Nashville that summer is hazy, infused with childhood dreamlike contradictions: insecurity and adventure, the friendly faces of cousins, aunts, and uncles mixed in with…