unsent

Checking my mail every day, I find only impersonal envelopes without postage stamps from insurance companies, real estate agencies, and political parties urging me to vote. The mail goes straight into the recycling bin, because with my immigration status, I cannot buy a house, have no car to insure, and have no right to vote, and if honest, my rented room and current address do not feel like home.

My mind tries to reconcile my physical location with the sense of the map of Ukraine across my body, where it hurts me in Sumy city, then in Odesa, next in Olenivka, later in Bakhmut, or everywhere at once. I write letters sharing the day’s news, collaging used envelopes, tickets from my days travels, images from vintage magazines, and old stamps.

Collage offers a focused image when the world is fragmented and shattered. The broken pieces can be glued together to produce a complete picture again. My letters have no addresses and remain unsent. I am stubbornly writing a letter every day. This ritual gives me hope that one day I will find a heartfelt message waiting in my mailbox – a letter with my name and address handwritten on it.