I photographed funeral homes in small Vermont towns, spaces where the decor remained largely unchanged as generations passed through them. These rooms held an enormous amount of human presence, even when I photographed them empty and quiet.

Everything was designed to offer comfort: flowers, soft light, heavy curtains, religious imagery, carefully arranged furniture. But it was often the smallest traces that stayed with me, the dent in the carpet where folding chairs had stood, the evidence of people gathering and then leaving again.

These are spaces we pass through, leaving our marks behind. The rituals and gestures meant to help us confront death become reminders of our own impermanence. We arrange the flowers, straighten the chairs, gather together, and then we leave alone.