Phoebe Gray was a servant who lived at Temple Newsman in 1704. There is very little record of her fleeting life- she is mentioned by name in an inventory of the house and again in the court records following her murder.

Traditional history writing does not devote much time to people like Phoebe.

Human life is a mosaic of countless tiny moments, moments that feel insignificant when they happen but can move you to tears when reflected upon. The feeling of the warm skin of someone you love, the crunchy sound of icy grass underfoot, the sound of absentminded humming drifting from the kitchen, the way your hand dances as you stitch, a crackling fire, a bird that lingered delightfully close, the relief of a big cry.

When we record history as though it were a fixed series of events, a narrative, an obtainable answer- don't we loose so much of the important bits? The bits that really mean something?

This is a subjunctive archive. One that imagines and hopes and wishes. One that joins me and Phoebe together for a brief, flashing moment.