A house is not a home. It is merely a vessel for our lives with the potential to be a home. I have lived in six houses and have often struggled to confidently call any of them home. We do our best to make it ours, but we also know that in a few months or years, we will pack it all up again and start over. Yet, in light of my parents’ latest move, I find myself grieving the home we built, as well as the ones we left behind. I had to come to terms with inconstancy and recognize the loneliness that accompanies it.
This work documents our last move. I captured the house both as it will be preserved in my memory, as the evidence of our presence slowly gets erased, alongside the vacant potential of new beginnings. It is a meditation on the house I lived in the longest, an exploration of a new unknown one, and a reflection on feeling detached from it all. I am left asking the question, what makes a home with a family that is prone to wander?
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