Amy: Do you remember this?
When my mother gave birth to my half-sister Erica, I was twenty years old. Sitting in the hospital room with my camera at 4 a.m., mom made giving birth look easy. I photographed as Erica made her way into the world, cut her umbilical cord myself, and was the very first person to hold her. In that moment I gave her a name she didn't get to keep. And she peed on me.
Ever since, photographing Erica has been a window into my own elusive childhood.
The front yard became a pumpkin patch after Erica planted a pumpkin seed the year before.
Summer.
Playing basketball in the frontyard.
A young squirrel lost his mother.
Watching cartoons and doing headstands.
Mom: The sun is like a blanket. It keeps her warm.
Crawling on the truck on mom's birthday.
Beagles smile for every picture.
Mom thinks the Christmas lights look like something else.
After Emmet Gowin.
Cassie is an airplane dog.
Erica with her toys and a sliver of sunshine.
Mom says her hugs last long after she lets go.
Amy: Tell me what you think.
