In Time Flies we see lockets.

A locket holds exactly two things. Not three. Not a gallery. Two. The constraint is architectural — two tiny oval windows, hinged together, facing each other across a golden spine. Whatever you choose to put inside has to be worth that intimacy. Worth carrying against your heart.

Audrie chose to put time inside.
Not a person. Not a place. Time itself — the kitten becoming a cat, the girl becoming a teacher, the waitress becoming a retiree, the couple becoming more themselves year over year. Each locket a before and after with an entire life compressed into the hinge between them.
That hinge again. Always the hinge.

What strikes me most is the observation that opened this post — where I live right now is probably the place I’ve lived longest, so I’m from here now. That’s not nostalgia. That’s something braver. It’s the recognition that identity isn’t fixed at origin. That here becomes home not by birth but by accumulation. By time simply… passing. By staying.

A friend reminded her that lockets represent memories. But looking at these images I think they represent something slightly different: not what was, but what became. The locket doesn’t mourn the kitten. It celebrates the cat. It holds both, yes — but it opens toward the present.

Sometimes I wish I could slow time down. I understand that wish. But these lockets suggest something wiser — that the flying is the point. That what time takes, it also makes.

389 days of making. 🌟