Most people have homes that are important to them. For me, it was my grandmother’s house. I always felt comfortable there in a way no other home in my life has made me feel. As with all things in life, though, it had to come to an end. Selling my grandmother’s house was a defining moment in my life as well as my family’s life. It meant we had changed in a very permanent way in which none of us were prepared to accept. Even now, nothing I can say here, nor the photos I have taken can give you any real indication of what the house was like or what it meant to me. It is just a dream that has dissolved in my memory and runs through me like blood in my veins. All I can give you is a glimpse of it.
“Memories of the outside world will never have the same tonality as those of home and, by recalling these memories, we add to our store of dreams; we are never real historians, but always near poets, and our emotion is perhaps nothing but an expression of poetry that was lost.”
-Gaston Bachelard, Poetics of Space