I have never moved.
Well, that is, my family of five – mother, father, sister, brother, and me – has never physically lifted the roots it has planted in New Jersey to live elsewhere. I am grateful for this, and I realize this also makes us something of an anomaly in today’s world. When I return home from school, it is to the same house in which I was raised, the house across the street from the elementary school I attended (though now it bears a different name) and the church where I received my First Communion.
It is a house paneled in leaf-green siding and ringed by a white picket fence, nestled on a quiet hilltop in a town with which few people are familiar. A house where sunlight warms icy windows and pools on the carpet under your shoes, where pillows are thrown haphazardly on couches and a cat occasionally tries to join you at the dinner table.
I recently purchased a wonderful new camera. I had been saving up for one, spending countless hours researching a DSLR that I could afford without bursting a hole in my bank account. I’ve had it for about a week and half now. Unsurprisingly, photographing my life within this house has become a gently thrilling exercise in capturing the lovely little ordinary things I see both within its walls and those which I see from the windows. Here are just a few. There will be more to come.