Porch Dreams in Rust.

The photograph unfolds like a memory left too long in the sun, its edges washed with the stains of time, its surface flickering with a cosmic dusting of speckles, scratches, and chemical burns. At first glance, it feels like a relic found in an old shoebox beneath the bed—an image carrying the weight of childhood, survival, and the quiet poetry of everyday existence.

At the center, a weathered wooden porch juts out from a small, rust-bitten home, its walls scarred with peeling paint and metal oxidation. Above the porch railing hangs a small American flag, its fabric thin, its red, white, and blue muted yet still defiant against the decay surrounding it. The flag is less about nationalism here and more about persistence—the quiet assertion of identity, of belonging, even in rougher circumstances. The fabric hangs not as a pristine symbol but as a threadbare witness to time’s slow unraveling