My mom grew up here. In this house which was once the biggest house in little town of Veisiejai, Lithuania.  

Every year she comes back to try and clean the crumbling house so full of dust. She cuts the grass by the lake which has grown nearly as tall as her since she last visited.  She opens all the windows to let the house breathe again, airing out the stillness. 

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She sits in the room where her mom slept, the bed where she fell asleep for the last time. When I was a kid, my grandma taught us to pray and sing old folklore songs. My sister and I would do it every night before going to sleep.

I forgot how to pray now, but my mom prays for me. 

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We're in the kitchen. She's cooking  for me on that old gas stove, just the way my grandma did. Using  the same old mismatched pots and the blackest of  black frying pans. I look in her eyes, and she smiles.  

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“Can I take a picture of you, mom?”