This is a photograph of my book Pippi Longstocking, which, if my memory serves me well, my mom bought for me when I was six years old. We were in Sofia, Bulgaria, in the beautiful city park in front of the building of the National Theatre. It was a warm, sunny day and the old trees arched in a gorgeous green canopy above us; it must have been either spring or summer. A street vendor had set up a table filled with books in the park. In addition to this one, I believe my mom bought another book for her to read, because I remember both of us sitting on a bench in the park and reading together. Throughout my childhood, I read Pippi Longstocking multiple times. I was drawn to Pippi’s sense of humour and, most of all, to her independence and adventurousness. When, years later, we were preparing to leave for Canada and had to pack things to bring with us, this book was one of the first objects I put in my suitcase. I don’t remember my thoughts at the time—why I decided to take this book—but I do remember the certainty with which I made the decision. Maybe the book represented an unconscious holding-on to a moment from childhood, to childhood itself, a token of a life that I knew I was leaving behind, an object that would give me a sense of grounding in an uprooted life. Or maybe the fact that the book is in my native Bulgarian language was what compelled me to take it along with me. Whatever the reason, for more than two decades now, this book has lived with me on various shelves in various Canadian cities where I have resided. It is tattered, worn, its colours are fading, but I cherish it like I cherish an old photograph—it is as though my image of that day in the park, of me reading this book at different ages, and of our travel to Canada are all imprinted on its pages. And now, this book-photograph has become the inspiration of the creative project that I am presenting here.