My late husband and I chose our home because of a tree. A ginkgo, in the backyard. This tree recalled my grandmother’s ginkgo in Mississippi, which she described in writing after my grandfather died. She noted its leaves didn’t fall gradually but all at once, revealing a brilliant trace and a sudden absence. When my husband died unexpectedly, I marked time through photographs. I packed our young son into my car and during summers we traveled, as if the distance might reorder things. We traveled through public parks and spaces heavy with our own history, including the land where my grandmother once mapped her own bereavement. Her Polaroids, made while living in solitude as a widow on our family’s farm, became a guide for the images I made 35 years later. My photographs, shown in conversation with hers, collapse time. Collectively, the images are articulations of mourning tracing a confluence of motherhood, memory, and grief.