This piece was made in memory of my mother.

In the dead of February, underneath a knee deep layer of crackling leaves I hid four sources of audio that were timed to play randomly. Preserved telephone conversations on rotary phones in Karachi, my mother and my cook singing for the tape recorder when I was four, and my father speaking to strangers, became ghostly and inaudible voices when walking towards them because of the noise of walking on leaves. This piece was a collapsing of my two worlds. The leaves became stand-ins for my American experience woven intimately with the loss of my mother or the loss of my home.