I take pictures to prove that moments in life mattered.

When someone asks where I'm from, I hesitate. Born in New York, but I don't remember it the way you remember home. Lived in Japan but felt the hum of “belonging” slip through my fingers. Seattle taught me what it meant to stay, to watch unchanging clouds.

But then there's Italy, the way light falls in Sicily, the particular yellow of Lemon. Southern France, I want to live in a small apartment. So I take another picture.

Each image is a small room I carry. A window I can return to. Not an address, but proof: I was there. I noticed. I loved it enough to frame it, to hold it still against the movement of my own life.

Maybe home isn't a place you're from. Perhaps it's the act of saying: this moment, this street, this light, and this belongs to me now. This is where I'm from, over and over again.