One Hour / Westfield Park

 

After living on her own for over four decades, my grandmother, at 92, had to move to an apartment in a residence for aging women, her short-term memory nearly gone. Her beloved home lost its caretaker overnight.

 

As a child I cherished my visits to her house and bonded with every inch of it until I could recreate it in my mind. With her move, I knew that she would never return and her house would soon be cleared out of its contents and put up for sale. On a quick and rare visit across the country to see my extended family—and perhaps the last time I would see my grandmother—I was lucky to have one hour at her house in Westfield Park to take as many photographs as I could while my family waited patiently.

 

What I saw were many of the same objects and views from my childhood but with an added ache and emptiness. The last plate she used was still sitting in the dish rack, her notes still in piles on her telephone desk, the extra bedrooms made up for guests who would no longer be visiting, and her bedroom all but bare as the things closest to her had been packed up and moved to her new home.