A few years ago we moved into the home once owned by my husband’s grandfather, who had recently passed away. He was beloved in our family; a WWII vet who had built a life for himself after the war in this archetypal, mid-century neighborhood called the “Holiday Homes.” After moving in, we were tasked with clearing out 50 years of a life well-lived. But in the process of clearing out objects big and small, buffing marks from the floors and ripping out overgrown flower beds, there was the feeling of history being overwritten – and we had already lost so much. I started to think about how the objects that we couldn’t part with might make their way into my photographs; objects such as our grandfather’s coat, an old picture frame, and a silk baby blanket. These items don’t stand alone, but are placed adjacent to plants, cuttings and terrain from the surrounding garden and greenhouse. They are signifiers of the tender legacy that is bound to those of us who remain. More than a document of home and family and change, I am thinking about the way in which traces from the past get woven into the present.