Rona May Bawa

Decaying handwritten letters, photos, objects and spaces— of all the traces that were left, rekindling and remembering mundane things after a death of a loved one, just to make us feel that they are still in this realm. To all the people who were left behind and to the butterflies of who passed away.

A year has already passed since the pandemic started but we still find ourselves waiting for something as time continuously ticks and as our hearts still beat. A reflection of loss and hope in the midst of uncertainties and fears in a time where it felt like the world stopped from its motion, but we did not.

Decaying handwritten letters, photos, objects and spaces— of all the traces that were left, rekindling and remembering mundane things after a death of a loved one, just to make us feel that they are still in this realm. To all the people who were left behind and to the butterflies of who passed away.

Decaying handwritten letters, photos, objects and spaces— of all the traces that were left, rekindling and remembering mundane things after a death of a loved one, just to make us feel that they are still in this realm. To all the people who were left behind and to the butterflies of who passed away.

A year has already passed since the pandemic started but we still find ourselves waiting for something as time continuously ticks and as our hearts still beat. A reflection of loss and hope in the midst of uncertainties and fears in a time where it felt like the world stopped from its motion, but we did not.

A year has already passed since the pandemic started but we still find ourselves waiting for something as time continuously ticks and as our hearts still beat. A reflection of loss and hope in the midst of uncertainties and fears in a time where it felt like the world stopped from its motion, but we did not.