Promise
They sit, one in each corner of the double closet, like two, squat, white, abstract pieces of art, open to whatever interpretation the viewer chooses to make of them. Only the sculptor can validate the interpretation of any observer. Even though I own them I have no intention of even confirming what they represent or why they stand, alone and abandoned, in the corner of my clothes closet. They are both my cross and my salvation, all in the same breath; my sole remaining link to the past and the...