and she’s lost to you, little green

i bought a thick copper sink at a tag sale maybe a decade ago or more. its base and basin are not connected, and its pieces can be moved separately, which is good since it weighs probably 90-plus pounds. time has turned the metal into a rusty, green patina, and the sink looks like it’s been soaking in the color of old age. it’s been in storage at my parents’ house for more than ten years and moved around at least that many times. my family hates the sink, especially my brothers, who are always the ones stuck with the job of moving it. next to it in the attic are stacks of old New Yorkers, boxes of rocks, art from college that ought to be wheeled to the curb and thousands and thousands of photographs. i can just hear my dad saying prayers of thanksgiving that we are in a digital age, because since being here, i’ve taken thousands more.

that same color of patina is everywhere in my eyes and everywhere in the photos. it’s the color of age, but against the one hundred shades of dirt and dry, the color is so fresh and everywhere, like a little spill of something cool to freshen what is always hot. it’s a pretty dusty landscape, and i feel like i have to find beauty in the same things over and over—perhaps a task we’re forever charged with, no matter where we live. so we take a new picture of the same wet mop, we see a new color in the ancient morning sun, we find a new way to use what we’ve already used, and we read over and over again that same verse about old things becoming new.