I like old things. My dad's old 1970s Ray bans and my mother's old dupattas turned to scarves and my grandmother's saris cut up into shawls and 1920s and 40s vintage dresses and old broken jewelry that no one else wants. I like old picture albums with black and white photos and tissue paper in between the black pages and old cars like the ones they have in Havana and used bookstores and old watches. I like things that have been handed down or lent out and I like lending things of mine to other people, or giving them away. I like the idea of things circulating through time, exchanging hands. I like the idea of things carrying their own energy, their own memories. I like the idea that things have their own DNA, their own history. I like flea markets and junk stores and old homes and old buildings. I like mending found things. I like old things.