The white horizon stretched on endlessly, and for a moment I thought I was about to plummet into that infinite expanse. The only thing keeping me on my feet was the image of a vessel hidden inside a century-old pot, its cracks bound with metal tape to give it one more chance at life. The pot had endured, and so had I.

Back then, when my friends had already left and I’d gone into a sort of self-imposed exile beyond the city limits, it was the weight of objects that connected me to the world. I remember walking across the field to the post office, with my IKEA bag, heavy with clay pots, tugging at my shoulder until I lowered it and began dragging it through the snow like a sledge.