Sediment traces my experience as a longtime caregiver living in the aftermath of immense loss, both expected and unexpected. I am now a caregiver with no one left to care for. The land that I know as home, developed by my grandfather and occupied for three generations, has long shaped my sense of self. Since the recent passing of my parents, the relationship toward this land has been shifting. I feel like a stranger in my home, untethered from what once felt certain.

Using soil from my family compound, I make bricks displaced from their usual function as shelter. The soil carries the residue of what came before, holding labor, memory and inheritance. Using my family’s most valued dinnerware set, I recast something fragile in concrete, attempting to preserve what cannot fully be held. This action simultaneously purports its own futility, and the concrete dishware creates markers of grief, memory, and estrangement. As I move through this new stage of life, the work becomes a way of reckoning with loss and reimagining what home can hold.