In 2008 I discovered an abandoned homestead in Maine.

When I (finally) climbed in a window to investigate the interior of the house, I was haunted and transfixed by the immediacy of the human lives, long vanished, that had unfolded there. It was as if the people who lived there had just stepped away, their abandoned possessions witness to a rich domestic life I recognized and understood but would never know the particulars of. Who had lived here? Why did they leave? And who had squatted in their wake, adding layers to the detritus of vanished lives? In the end it seemed not to matter. A sense of fragility and loss pervaded the place, the anonymity of human passage through the world a solitary truth that even the comforts of home could not dispel.