Six months after my grandmother died, her house sat idle. No one in the family could bring themselves to clear out what was, for so long, the center of our lives. It was the house in which my mother and her siblings grew up. The house my siblings and my cousins and I all knew as our second home. I decided to make a portrait of this home, exactly as it was on the day that my grandmother walked out its front door for the last time. During the days of shooting, every corner revealed a new memory. Strange old dolls my brother and I would throw at one another. Pictures of distant relatives, whom I knew only through bedtime stories. The large window where we sat and watched planes fly over the man made lake behind the house on their way to and from JFK. And some killer hiding places. I found it a rewarding experience, not just to confront my memories, but to observe the signs of life that accumulate in a home over the course of 60 plus years and several generations. Signs of life that far outweighed the six months without.