My abuelita has never known who I am. My father has watched her slip away for over 20 years. I never really knew her, and even though she is alive today, I know I never will. My father's memory is slipping and I, myself, worry when I cannot recall even someone’s name. This biological loss of thought and memory creates fear and panic that we, too, will soon be my abuelita. 

Installing a desk that is littered with my father's letters to his mother, while a turntable plays his favorite records, immerses the viewer in a space of memory that seems to float out of place. A cast glass book on the desk slightly conceals the recipe of the only thing my abuelita taught me how to cook. It isn't quite clear, except in bits and pieces, just like the memories we share. An acetone transferred the image of my grandmother and father to connect our relationships only through photo documentation.