I know about texture. I have curly hair. I love plants, from prickly pear to lamb’s ear. I run fabric through my fingers when I walk past racks of sweaters and coats in department stores.
Then there are the memories of the places I’ve been—foreign countries to visit relatives, deserts to visit friends, parks to be alone and clear my mind—offering up a shard of pottery half submerged in soil in a garden path. Bougainvillea bright and papery against a pocked stucco wall. The oversized floral clock in Niagara Falls. The ancient stone paths in St. Victor la Coste. The moist shale creek bed in the Cleveland Metroparks. Shining tinsel and matte wooden cranberry beads against evergreen boughs.