morning at home

On Friday nights growing up, my dad would rent a movie to watch with me and my younger sisters. His taste in movies, much like his taste in music, veers obscure. He taught me to appreciate movies with almost no discernible plot. Slow movies that were all character development and setting. 

That's what excites me most about taking pictures of families. People in places. I want to come in during quiet, easily forgotten moments, and freeze them. I want to to be there as the middle child mixes up his pancake batter, just as he has for years, to eat his favorite breakfast. I want to watch a mom watching her sons as they read from joke books and figure out math riddles. I want to witness the youngest brush his hair fast and furiously, and then turn walk out of the bathroom with pride draped over his shoulders like a cloak.

Long limbs they haven't grown in to. Missing teeth and too big teeth. Scrapped knees and dirty socks. I want to come in to your home and show you what I see. Because sometimes, in the middle of all the dishes and the laundry and refereeing and the library book due dates, you lose sight. There is so much to remember, and your family is changing by almost imperceptible degrees. One day it will be hard to remember what ordinary felt like.

Those Friday night movies with my dad and sisters, the ones that made me look for beauty in the  mundane, I wish that I could go back to them. To see the couch we piled in on wearing my dad's old tee shirts as pajamas, our freckled faces illuminated by the glow of a television screen.