To be precious is to be held dear, held close. To be apprehensive of letting go; preciousness is a sign of innate weakness, historical femininity. Being tender, crying too easily, clutching to childhood immaturity. Holding onto the clothes you wore as a child, what no longer fits or holds inherent value, but that is coveted nonetheless; to anticipate the end, anticipate loss. Make futile attempts to prevent the inevitable. Preciousness, or the refusal to let go, is a delicately woven web made up of my own belongings, spun with the thoughts/images/preciousness of others. This is mine, that yours; preciousness is tended within me, inherited from every version of myself, made up of what younger me could no longer bear to carry. It is an ever growing web, still grasping onto the last moments of childhood that grow in kitchens and parks and living rooms and books and Anna's couch and Elena's table and my bedroom in Cleveland; the birthday cards and little scraps of paper that litter any wall that's ever been mine, the quilt my grandmother made me that covers my bed in the summer, the lumpy socks and asymmetrical mittens I‘ve knit myself these last few months. Each piece I lend to this collection as something to hold onto, take care of, so I don't have to let them go…