Going home feels different at 38.

I flew back to Atlanta last week and the first thing I noticed was how small the kitchen is. It used to feel like the center of the world. My mom still keeps the kettle on the same burner.

When you’re young, going home means returning to who you were. Now it feels more like visiting people I love who happen to remember a version of me I’ve mostly forgotten.

I took a lot of pictures. I didn’t post any of them. That felt important, though I can’t totally explain why yet.

Maybe that’s what this site is for.