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A love letter to my child hood
To the home of my grandparents in the countryside, where my steps followed up the narrow stone stairs to the balcony garden. Where the most beautiful flowers, the freshest herbs, and vegetables grew. I would greet and play with the pack of Jindo puppies lining the edges of the house on my way inside. Leaving kisses on their soft white fur, puppy breath against my cheek as I replace my shoes with house slippers.
To my grandma whose voice, sharp and clear; I could recognize anywhere, calling for me when it was time to eat. I was always praised for eating well; seconds would shortly follow, as if it were my duty to eat more.
To the way my little hands gripped tightly onto my grandpa’s as I stood in the front of the motorbike he drove through town. This meant a day full of snacks and toys from convenience stores, playground visits, and the costless feeling of wind sweeping through my small body. I would return home with unraveled baby hairs covering my eyes that had once been set perfectly in place.
To the way my grandparents’ hands would rest behind their lower backs as they walked in front of me. As if that position alone made the moment more peaceful. Those same hands, once in the same position, had held their first baby fast asleep against their backs. That child eventually grew up to hold me in the exact same way… Umma.
My umma told me that our hands speak of the life we live. Time does this, it tells stories through our bodies. Perpetually holding on and letting go. There will come a time when all that we once held will rest quietly behind our lower backs.
A love letter to my child hood
To the home of my grandparents in the countryside, where my steps followed up the narrow stone stairs to the balcony garden. Where the most beautiful flowers, the freshest herbs, and vegetables grew. I would greet and play with the pack of Jindo puppies lining the edges of the house on my way inside. Leaving kisses on their soft white fur, puppy breath against my cheek as I replace my shoes with house slippers.
To my grandma whose voice, sharp and clear; I could recognize anywhere, calling for me when it was time to eat. I was always praised for eating well; seconds would shortly follow, as if it were my duty to eat more.
To the way my little hands gripped tightly onto my grandpa’s as I stood in the front of the motorbike he drove through town. This meant a day full of snacks and toys from convenience stores, playground visits, and the costless feeling of wind sweeping through my small body. I would return home with unraveled baby hairs covering my eyes that had once been set perfectly in place.
To the way my grandparents’ hands would rest behind their lower backs as they walked in front of me. As if that position alone made the moment more peaceful. Those same hands, once in the same position, had held their first baby fast asleep against their backs. That child eventually grew up to hold me in the exact same way… Umma.
My umma told me that our hands speak of the life we live. Time does this, it tells stories through our bodies. Perpetually holding on and letting go. There will come a time when all that we once held will rest quietly behind our lower backs.
A love letter to my child hood
To the home of my grandparents in the countryside, where my steps followed up the narrow stone stairs to the balcony garden. Where the most beautiful flowers, the freshest herbs, and vegetables grew. I would greet and play with the pack of Jindo puppies lining the edges of the house on my way inside. Leaving kisses on their soft white fur, puppy breath against my cheek as I replace my shoes with house slippers.
To my grandma whose voice, sharp and clear; I could recognize anywhere, calling for me when it was time to eat. I was always praised for eating well; seconds would shortly follow, as if it were my duty to eat more.
To the way my little hands gripped tightly onto my grandpa’s as I stood in the front of the motorbike he drove through town. This meant a day full of snacks and toys from convenience stores, playground visits, and the costless feeling of wind sweeping through my small body. I would return home with unraveled baby hairs covering my eyes that had once been set perfectly in place.
To the way my grandparents’ hands would rest behind their lower backs as they walked in front of me. As if that position alone made the moment more peaceful. Those same hands, once in the same position, had held their first baby fast asleep against their backs. That child eventually grew up to hold me in the exact same way… Umma.
My umma told me that our hands speak of the life we live. Time does this, it tells stories through our bodies. Perpetually holding on and letting go. There will come a time when all that we once held will rest quietly behind our lower backs.
A love letter to my child hood
To the home of my grandparents in the countryside, where my steps followed up the narrow stone stairs to the balcony garden. Where the most beautiful flowers, the freshest herbs, and vegetables grew. I would greet and play with the pack of Jindo puppies lining the edges of the house on my way inside. Leaving kisses on their soft white fur, puppy breath against my cheek as I replace my shoes with house slippers.
To my grandma whose voice, sharp and clear; I could recognize anywhere, calling for me when it was time to eat. I was always praised for eating well; seconds would shortly follow, as if it were my duty to eat more.
To the way my little hands gripped tightly onto my grandpa’s as I stood in the front of the motorbike he drove through town. This meant a day full of snacks and toys from convenience stores, playground visits, and the costless feeling of wind sweeping through my small body. I would return home with unraveled baby hairs covering my eyes that had once been set perfectly in place.
To the way my grandparents’ hands would rest behind their lower backs as they walked in front of me. As if that position alone made the moment more peaceful. Those same hands, once in the same position, had held their first baby fast asleep against their backs. That child eventually grew up to hold me in the exact same way… Umma.
My umma told me that our hands speak of the life we live. Time does this, it tells stories through our bodies. Perpetually holding on and letting go. There will come a time when all that we once held will rest quietly behind our lower backs.
A love letter to my child hood
To the home of my grandparents in the countryside, where my steps followed up the narrow stone stairs to the balcony garden. Where the most beautiful flowers, the freshest herbs, and vegetables grew. I would greet and play with the pack of Jindo puppies lining the edges of the house on my way inside. Leaving kisses on their soft white fur, puppy breath against my cheek as I replace my shoes with house slippers.
To my grandma whose voice, sharp and clear; I could recognize anywhere, calling for me when it was time to eat. I was always praised for eating well; seconds would shortly follow, as if it were my duty to eat more.
To the way my little hands gripped tightly onto my grandpa’s as I stood in the front of the motorbike he drove through town. This meant a day full of snacks and toys from convenience stores, playground visits, and the costless feeling of wind sweeping through my small body. I would return home with unraveled baby hairs covering my eyes that had once been set perfectly in place.
To the way my grandparents’ hands would rest behind their lower backs as they walked in front of me. As if that position alone made the moment more peaceful. Those same hands, once in the same position, had held their first baby fast asleep against their backs. That child eventually grew up to hold me in the exact same way… Umma.
My umma told me that our hands speak of the life we live. Time does this, it tells stories through our bodies. Perpetually holding on and letting go. There will come a time when all that we once held will rest quietly behind our lower backs.
A love letter to my child hood
To the home of my grandparents in the countryside, where my steps followed up the narrow stone stairs to the balcony garden. Where the most beautiful flowers, the freshest herbs, and vegetables grew. I would greet and play with the pack of Jindo puppies lining the edges of the house on my way inside. Leaving kisses on their soft white fur, puppy breath against my cheek as I replace my shoes with house slippers.
To my grandma whose voice, sharp and clear; I could recognize anywhere, calling for me when it was time to eat. I was always praised for eating well; seconds would shortly follow, as if it were my duty to eat more.
To the way my little hands gripped tightly onto my grandpa’s as I stood in the front of the motorbike he drove through town. This meant a day full of snacks and toys from convenience stores, playground visits, and the costless feeling of wind sweeping through my small body. I would return home with unraveled baby hairs covering my eyes that had once been set perfectly in place.
To the way my grandparents’ hands would rest behind their lower backs as they walked in front of me. As if that position alone made the moment more peaceful. Those same hands, once in the same position, had held their first baby fast asleep against their backs. That child eventually grew up to hold me in the exact same way… Umma.
My umma told me that our hands speak of the life we live. Time does this, it tells stories through our bodies. Perpetually holding on and letting go. There will come a time when all that we once held will rest quietly behind our lower backs.
A love letter to my child hood
To the home of my grandparents in the countryside, where my steps followed up the narrow stone stairs to the balcony garden. Where the most beautiful flowers, the freshest herbs, and vegetables grew. I would greet and play with the pack of Jindo puppies lining the edges of the house on my way inside. Leaving kisses on their soft white fur, puppy breath against my cheek as I replace my shoes with house slippers.
To my grandma whose voice, sharp and clear; I could recognize anywhere, calling for me when it was time to eat. I was always praised for eating well; seconds would shortly follow, as if it were my duty to eat more.
To the way my little hands gripped tightly onto my grandpa’s as I stood in the front of the motorbike he drove through town. This meant a day full of snacks and toys from convenience stores, playground visits, and the costless feeling of wind sweeping through my small body. I would return home with unraveled baby hairs covering my eyes that had once been set perfectly in place.
To the way my grandparents’ hands would rest behind their lower backs as they walked in front of me. As if that position alone made the moment more peaceful. Those same hands, once in the same position, had held their first baby fast asleep against their backs. That child eventually grew up to hold me in the exact same way… Umma.
My umma told me that our hands speak of the life we live. Time does this, it tells stories through our bodies. Perpetually holding on and letting go. There will come a time when all that we once held will rest quietly behind our lower backs.
A love letter to my child hood
To the home of my grandparents in the countryside, where my steps followed up the narrow stone stairs to the balcony garden. Where the most beautiful flowers, the freshest herbs, and vegetables grew. I would greet and play with the pack of Jindo puppies lining the edges of the house on my way inside. Leaving kisses on their soft white fur, puppy breath against my cheek as I replace my shoes with house slippers.
To my grandma whose voice, sharp and clear; I could recognize anywhere, calling for me when it was time to eat. I was always praised for eating well; seconds would shortly follow, as if it were my duty to eat more.
To the way my little hands gripped tightly onto my grandpa’s as I stood in the front of the motorbike he drove through town. This meant a day full of snacks and toys from convenience stores, playground visits, and the costless feeling of wind sweeping through my small body. I would return home with unraveled baby hairs covering my eyes that had once been set perfectly in place.
To the way my grandparents’ hands would rest behind their lower backs as they walked in front of me. As if that position alone made the moment more peaceful. Those same hands, once in the same position, had held their first baby fast asleep against their backs. That child eventually grew up to hold me in the exact same way… Umma.
My umma told me that our hands speak of the life we live. Time does this, it tells stories through our bodies. Perpetually holding on and letting go. There will come a time when all that we once held will rest quietly behind our lower backs.
A love letter to my child hood
To the home of my grandparents in the countryside, where my steps followed up the narrow stone stairs to the balcony garden. Where the most beautiful flowers, the freshest herbs, and vegetables grew. I would greet and play with the pack of Jindo puppies lining the edges of the house on my way inside. Leaving kisses on their soft white fur, puppy breath against my cheek as I replace my shoes with house slippers.
To my grandma whose voice, sharp and clear; I could recognize anywhere, calling for me when it was time to eat. I was always praised for eating well; seconds would shortly follow, as if it were my duty to eat more.
To the way my little hands gripped tightly onto my grandpa’s as I stood in the front of the motorbike he drove through town. This meant a day full of snacks and toys from convenience stores, playground visits, and the costless feeling of wind sweeping through my small body. I would return home with unraveled baby hairs covering my eyes that had once been set perfectly in place.
To the way my grandparents’ hands would rest behind their lower backs as they walked in front of me. As if that position alone made the moment more peaceful. Those same hands, once in the same position, had held their first baby fast asleep against their backs. That child eventually grew up to hold me in the exact same way… Umma.
My umma told me that our hands speak of the life we live. Time does this, it tells stories through our bodies. Perpetually holding on and letting go. There will come a time when all that we once held will rest quietly behind our lower backs.
A love letter to my child hood
To the home of my grandparents in the countryside, where my steps followed up the narrow stone stairs to the balcony garden. Where the most beautiful flowers, the freshest herbs, and vegetables grew. I would greet and play with the pack of Jindo puppies lining the edges of the house on my way inside. Leaving kisses on their soft white fur, puppy breath against my cheek as I replace my shoes with house slippers.
To my grandma whose voice, sharp and clear; I could recognize anywhere, calling for me when it was time to eat. I was always praised for eating well; seconds would shortly follow, as if it were my duty to eat more.
To the way my little hands gripped tightly onto my grandpa’s as I stood in the front of the motorbike he drove through town. This meant a day full of snacks and toys from convenience stores, playground visits, and the costless feeling of wind sweeping through my small body. I would return home with unraveled baby hairs covering my eyes that had once been set perfectly in place.
To the way my grandparents’ hands would rest behind their lower backs as they walked in front of me. As if that position alone made the moment more peaceful. Those same hands, once in the same position, had held their first baby fast asleep against their backs. That child eventually grew up to hold me in the exact same way… Umma.
My umma told me that our hands speak of the life we live. Time does this, it tells stories through our bodies. Perpetually holding on and letting go. There will come a time when all that we once held will rest quietly behind our lower backs.
The Peace of Wild Things | Extension of photo
Creative director/director @louisameng_
Shot by @diane_lac
Edited by @devynadair
Sound by @devynadair
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