This particular morning was spent sitting at my Abuelita's kitchen table while my mother was on hold for a comically long time. Breakfast involved two quesadillas with ham and a sliced apple that I threw in at the last moment. Mostly I sat and listened to my Abuelita talk and my father occasionally chime in with agreement. I spend roughly 5 mornings out of the year at this table but it always feels like home. Nothing about it has changed since I was a child. I spent the next hour taking a series of photos from the single spot I have sat in so many times before.