From this desk I have a view of half a magnolia tree.

The other half has been cut off by a white wall. I

honestly have no idea where I’m looking. There are

no identifiable landmarks, just a building that could

be confused for a filing cabinet. There are parts of us,

too, that go unknown. The parts no one sees, or can’t

discern. I even conceal things from myself. I cannot

catch my shadow.

White space works like that wall: cutting, obscuring,

erasing. It leaves us with only fragments to orient

ourselves by, demanding we live with the gaps. In this

issue we’ve tried to honor those gaps — the missing

half of the tree, the shadow that slips out of reach —

and to think of white space not as emptiness but as a

presence of its own.