I have this insatiable need to document every corner and angle of my home photograph people residing inside as they always had, as though I’m still at home here, living my Day to day here as though the only fire was in it’s fire place the only water only when I wanted it turned on. The only cleansing done with soap, the only ash from incense.
I just want this game of hide and seek go be as simple as it always was, but there is no place to hide when walls have holes the size of whole walls no place to run when the charcoal tracks your every step. My home is the only thing undeniably hidden from view, I can see through it yet it does not appear, I can walk along it’s trampled halls finding only the bed of nails and horse hair, planks to keep the windows in and walls up, I find smoldering furniture and damp clothing melted toys and burnt home furnishings but I find no trace of my home, the one thing I’d hoped to find among the wreckage. I find no trace of my home, in my house there is none left.
I want to take a picture of you father at your computer chair or reading the newspaper or combing your hair
I want to take a picture of you mother with your microphone, making dinner or tidying your home
I want to take a picture of you brothers laughing and joking and playing with each other
I want to take a picture of you sister lying in your bed in the afternoon watching on your laptop yet another cartoon
I want these all for my album that I’ll place inside my heart
The only problem is the fire that’s torn that life apart
A little char, a little ash,
no more a home no more than trash