There’s that smell in the air, the smell that’s familiar to home. You don’t realize that it smells this way until you’ve come back from a long trip. It’s a mix of the humid air from the outside settling with the morning dew alongside the faint mixture of last night’s dinner.  The house creeks as it does every so often, planting itself, claiming its space. For so long I’ve claimed this space as mine, weaving endless attachments with the cracks on the floor and the one misplaced tile.

I am realizing, however, that this was never my space to claim. It is not my home, it is my parent’s home.  It is in that realization that I begin to unravel who my parents are when they are not being my parents. The tensions that arise from both parent and child; frustrations and the dualities of love and hate.

There is a collaboration that happens between my parents and I. Certain truths show through in the photograph. The chipping on the walls, the lines on my father’s face, a comfort throughout each scene. I am eternalizing them, doing what my memory can’t. I am capturing my version of home. My inherit fear of losing them drives my interest in them. As much as I’d like to get away, they always call me down to have dinner with them.