I look through binoculars at monkeys and caiman and birds and read this book. My mother died last year–at times I find myself in tears, the equatorial sun burning me, the memory of my parents’ objects burning. Raffel’s spare prose veers on the sentimental and that’s no complaint. She builds bridges between the furniture of the world and our families and emotions. Everything that makes up a life. For many sections, the final line serves as a metaphor, explaining more fully the relationship behind the object . . . It’s a reminder that everything is connected.