Four Eggs and a Hummingbird

Four Eggs and a Hummingbird challenges the notion of authenticity often attributed to family photography through images that depict truth and artifice.

I am interested in how family can be a means of representing oneself in terms of histories, experiences, and memories. Four Eggs and a Hummingbird illustrates ambiguity. The images blur the line between fact and imagination, similar to how memory bends, molds, and fluctuates, complicating truthfulness. Using the dense forested region of the Pine Barrens as my foundation, I explore interior and exterior relationships between my family members and myself. Who am I as a person outside of my family unit? What burdens do I carry by keeping certain memories from my family members, and also myself?

Loopy-

On Tuesday,

they say you are loopy.

I drive an hour to the hospice center,

it has been so hot and humid this late August.

When I arrive,

the crosswalk bridge is closed again due to heat.

It hasn’t been open this whole time.

I wonder what it is like to walk across it momentarily,

and then I take the long way up to see you.

In the room all I see is your catheter bag.

Mom had told me crying that

it would be there now.

Mom had also told me that when you are near the end

your body starts shutting down, you

stop producing bodily fluids.

I see urine in your bag.

You are given cake,

but your birthday is still one month a way.

I ask, Is it a hummingbird cake?

Tell me how to make a hummingbird cake.

Four eggs and a hummingbird, you reply.

You proceed to become more scattered.

They say it’s the morphine.

I pass on dinner.

Everyone eats hamburgers around you while

‘Bachelor in Paradise’ is playing on the television.

I don’t want to cry in front of you,

again.

As I leave for the evening I grab your hand

and despite your age, your skin is soft.


Softer than mine.

You tell me you love my hands as you caress them.

You look,

into my eyes.

I pull away, but before I do I squeeze your hand
one last time.


Feel better and get some sleep. I’ll see you on Thursday.

On my way back to my car,

the crosswalk bridge is now open.

It’s cooler now.

I hear crickets.