I keep having this reoccurring dream. The context of the dream is always the same—I’m set to travel by plane—but the storyline varies after that. Sometimes I don’t leave enough time to pack and I miss my flight. Sometimes I manage to pack in time, but then external forces—traffic, other passengers—prevent me from boarding. Sometimes I make it on the flight, but the whole plane goes down enroute. Google, in all its vague wisdom, tells me that such dreams signal a need for change in my life. In reality, I think I’m just trying to find a way to everyone I love.

At the beginning of the summer, before our familial axis shifted, Mimi and Lilly came to visit for our third annual sister trip. They’re seven and ten years younger than me and it wasn’t until a few years ago that we all started to become true friends. But now they’re their own people, so funny and wise and beautiful and I’m so proud of them my heart aches. During their visit we found cheap bikes and cruised all around the city; we strolled museums and ate breakfast, lunch, and dinner in the park and solved crossword puzzles to our hearts’ content. We went to the mountains and estate sales and IKEA and vintage stores with painfully cool employees and Mimi and I got our noses pierced; morning and night we both leaned over the bathroom sink, our noses dunked in salty water. It was all so perfect—I knew that as it was happening, and yet my efforts to make time stand still proved futile.

Eventually, inevitably, our time came to an end. On the drive to the airport we distracted ourselves until we couldn’t anymore and then we clung to each other and cried. Somehow I mustered the strength to send them through those awful sliding glass doors. I felt my heart walk through with them. I’m not sure why things happen the way that they do. Life now is so different than the girls and I could’ve ever imagined ten, five, even two years ago. With bonds so close it’s a bit absurd how far-flung our lives are. We do our best to revel in each other’s daily happenings but things still slip through the cracks. Maybe one day we’ll be neighbors, but until then I’ll be plagued by planes. Love hurts and all that.

utah on film, 2019

Our love was built on winding roads and daring vistas. Fate came in the form of a jeep and the open road kept us together, my hand on the back of his neck and his hand on my thigh. We were the only two inhabitants on a planet created just for us. A tent became our sanctuary. Blustery cliffs were an excuse to hold each other close. Every sunset was a poem.

Perhaps we continue to choose these trips as a bridge to our beginnings. On the road we slip into a special kind of synchrony. We are a team, searching for meaning in every rock and rutted road. How soothing it is to leave behind household drudgeries and remember what it was like before we took each other for granted. I could be 18 again, bursting with love and wonder, forgetting how to eat or sleep.

“A dominant impulse on encountering beauty is to wish to hold onto it, to possess it and give it weight in one’s life. There is an urge to say, ‘I was here, I saw this and it mattered to me.’” —Alain de Botton

I feel equal parts attacked and validated by de Botton’s observation. Sometimes I wonder—what is the point of all this documentation? But, listen: I was here, I saw this and it mattered to me. This is reason enough to carry on.

I was here

San Diego, mid-May / ten girls, made family by blood and by love / a week together in a tiny beach house

I saw this

Gretta did yoga on the beach early in the morning and saw dolphins. The rest of us wanted to see them too, so that evening she performed an impromptu dolphin-summoning dance. No such luck, unfortunately. Perhaps the dolphins were intimidated by her spot-on impression.

Thursday was too cold and misty for the beach, so we drove to Balboa Park to see the rose gardens. Margaret found a patch of roses whose petals were yellow on one side and red on the other. With glee she covered up their name and asked us to guess the variety. Condiments, she gave as a hint. Salsa? No, but close! Ketchup and mustard? Yes! We asked an older gentleman to take our picture and his eyes lit up when he realized he’d have a captive audience for his antics.

At 11pm Margaret and I stood whispering in the dim kitchen; we got on the subject of feet and how odd they are. On a whim Margaret burst into Gwen’s room and said, “Gwen, are you awake? Show Carlotta how weird your feet are!” Gwen obliged (they’re not that weird). We tried to muffle our snorts to no avail. I can only hope in thirty years I will be showing off my sister’s feet to my daughter-in-law.

On our last day, determined to have a beach day, we put on swimsuits even though it was really too cold. Half of us eventually ran back to bundle up; the other stalwart half toughed it out. How many girls does it take to collapse a beach umbrella, you ask? Five in our case, and we still didn’t do it successfully. Oh well, what we lacked in technical skills was made up in amusement.

It mattered to me

After wine and pasta we had a group hug, all ten of us. Huddled together, Carla cried as she told us she couldn’t imagine better role models for her girls and the rest of us cried too, thinking about what we’ve lost this year and what we’ve gained in each other. I hope I have daughters so I can raise them to be just like these women.

All images shot with a single-use camera

Here is a truth: the earth is burning. Here is another truth: we are still here.

Armageddon is a biblical concept, the name of the place where the last battle between good and evil will be fought. With their greedy licking flamed tongues and rancid smoke plumed fingers the wildfires are raging apocalyptic monsters—and yet here we remain, soft creatures who beneath unholy skies want nothing more than a juicy hunk of watermelon and a spray of lake water. Isn’t it easy to believe Armageddon is here, now?

Photos taken during the horrific Cameron Peak fire in fall 2020. See the preview below or view the full series here.