Return to Love Letter, Visuals

In my previous post, I kept my sentences short and dry, because my main point was writing my immediate reaction to everything I’ve experienced during the trip to my hometown.

My grandparents’ house is made up of a three-story orange building, and it is more or less a landmark, albeit a hidden one. You have to walk a narrow path between a public park on one side, and olive trees outgrowing the walls confining them on the other. We used to live there when we were little, in the third story, but then we moved out.

When leaving our hometown to Damascus, we left a lot of things behind. Books, photo albums, clothes, portraits; and among those things I found an old box belonging to me. The box was full of love letters. Love letters I got, love letters I wrote and never sent, even love letters that didn’t belong to me, but to my sister.

Instead of sitting down on the dusty floor to read and wallow, I took pictures with my crappy phone camera.

Entering the room,

… and to see that old picture of my mom

and a sack full of my drawing pads,

The Sacred Cooking Book (it reads “Sweets for all Occasions”)

That reminder that I used to smoke in secret. (who the fuck decided to keep that trash anyway?)


Old cultural magazines belonging to my mom.

Stacks upon stacks of children’s magazines that were my other parents

Old cassettes eaten by dust

The Kitchen
CAM00191 CAM00192 CAM00194 CAM00195 CAM00197

The Bathroom
CAM00198 CAM00200 CAM00201

A Room of no Importance
CAM00203 CAM00204

My Grandmother’s Key Handle, and my greatest source of mystery as a child

And finally, the Love Letter box


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