The wrinkles on my Great-Grandmother's face have grown profound over time. For a long while, I did not notice. I only took note of the skin on my own face. The notion that her life existed long before mine was always an afterthought. I did not care to learn what she had learned, I could not perceive its necessity, she has always been around. 
Ultimately, I have begun to notice how much we have all aged.  My present has always been littered with deceit. The ruse that the present offers me, is the idea that what is in front of me is not ephemeral, but eternal. Luckily, I have never experienced the loss of a loved one, but I do know that it is inevitable. The truth is, I have never truly met my Great-Grandmother. Yet, she remains a part of the reason why I am who I am. I always tell myself that I will have the time to get to know her, that her stories will become mine to pass down. There are instances when I want to reach out and ask her all of what she knows, but, we're not there yet, and we may never be. My Great-Grandmother has become a symbol of how little I know of my family and where we come from. I know that once she goes, the walls that protect me from this universal truth; that we all must meet an end, will crumble and so will all of her stories; they will remain untold, never to be repeated again. 
Recently, I have recognized that these photographs are an attempt to prepare me for such a loss. The loss of life, and everything that leaves with it. Through my camera, a tool of self discovery, communication, and preservation, I try to connect with my family who are here by way of distant lands. My identity, which I once imagined to be so strong, has really always been fraught and riddled with questions. I need their answers. So I ask them, “How is it going?” and they answer, “Oye como va” (“Listen to how it goes”). So, I am finally listening; before the loss of a loved one, means that there's a part of me I will never get to know.
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