DESCRIBE THE LAST MOMENTS BEFORE YOU LEAVE A
PLACE FOREVER
Zoom. Click. Snap. My 2 years old camera repeats this
process whenever I capture something worth
remembering in my childhood home. I’m kidding.
Everything in my childhood home is worth looking back
on. Moving around the house is like taking multiple trips
down memory lane. I want to capture it all, to keep it all.
It was during my first week of collage when my
parents decided to sell the house that had been my home
since I was 9. I laughed when I first found out. It took
weeks for the message to really sink in. Since then, I
constantly made frequent trips from collage to help
around and to dwell in the last moments of my childhood
home.
Crouching on the ivory coloured ceramic floors of the
kitchen, I take a picture of the corner where my sister and
I would constantly slip when we chase each other around
the house. Looking at a tiny faded scar on the crook of my
elbow, I recall the time when I accidentally scratched
myself as I was running away from my sister.
A plethora of emotions fought for my attention as I
rambled about the house. Filled with grief, I did not want
to give up the house that held my history. Climbing up the
stairs, a wee chuckle escaped me as I think back to the
time when my cousins and I would saunter down the
stairs, dressed like fashionistas in our parents clothing.
PLACE FOREVER
Zoom. Click. Snap. My 2 years old camera repeats this
process whenever I capture something worth
remembering in my childhood home. I’m kidding.
Everything in my childhood home is worth looking back
on. Moving around the house is like taking multiple trips
down memory lane. I want to capture it all, to keep it all.
It was during my first week of collage when my
parents decided to sell the house that had been my home
since I was 9. I laughed when I first found out. It took
weeks for the message to really sink in. Since then, I
constantly made frequent trips from collage to help
around and to dwell in the last moments of my childhood
home.
Crouching on the ivory coloured ceramic floors of the
kitchen, I take a picture of the corner where my sister and
I would constantly slip when we chase each other around
the house. Looking at a tiny faded scar on the crook of my
elbow, I recall the time when I accidentally scratched
myself as I was running away from my sister.
A plethora of emotions fought for my attention as I
rambled about the house. Filled with grief, I did not want
to give up the house that held my history. Climbing up the
stairs, a wee chuckle escaped me as I think back to the
time when my cousins and I would saunter down the
stairs, dressed like fashionistas in our parents clothing.
