My father passed away on May 17, 2024, at the age of 97. It was a peaceful departure, the kind we all hope for, from natural causes, surrounded by love. His funeral service was held a week later on May 24, at the South Yarmouth United Methodist Church. The following day, we laid his ashes to rest in a private family ceremony.
Just two days later, I boarded a plane to Lisbon, to begin the start of a 6-7 week cruise project across Portugal, France, Spain, Norway and Iceland.. It was an adventure I looked forward to , yet I left home with an odd sense of detachment, almost numbness. I never really took the time to mourn my Dad’s passing—until today.
Today, I found myself in Ísafjörður, a small town in northwest Iceland’s Westfjords region. This place is known for its dramatic landscapes—jagged mountains that plunge into the sea, and a sky that feels like it’s been painted by some cosmic hand. The old town is a photographer’s dream, with wooden houses topped with corrugated tin roofs, built by fishing merchants in the 18th and 19th centuries. I’ve always loved photographing architecture, but today, it feels like there’s something deeper going on than just capturing snapshots of Icelandic homes.
As I walk around the town, the late afternoon sun casts long shadows, giving the houses a warmth that seems to seep into my soul.
The shadows in me grew long too.
With each click of the shutter, I could feel something stirring inside me, something I’ve kept buried since the day my father passed away. It feels as though, with every photograph I took, I was trying to connect with my own sense of house and home.
The houses here, though foreign and unfamiliar, resonate with a deep longing within me—a longing to feel close to my dad, to the home he and my mom created, and to the love that filled it.
The lump in my throat grew as I continued to shoot, and I realized that this wasn’t just about architecture. It’s about mourning. Mourning the man who raised me, who loved me , and who was a big influence in my life. It’s about coming to terms with the fact that he’s really gone, that the house I grew up in will never feel quite the same again. But more than that, it’s about understanding that home isn’t just a place—it’s the people we love, the memories we make, and the connections we hold dear.
As I look at these houses in Ísafjörður, I can’t help but think about the lives inside them. Whether we live in Iceland, Austin, or anywhere in between, we are all human beings with the same wishes, wants, and needs. We all seek love, comfort, and a sense of belonging. Each house I photographed becomes more than just a structure—it symbolizes the life within, the joys and sorrows, the love and loss that make a house a home.
There’s a certain solace in this realization, a comfort in knowing that we are not so different after all. My father’s passing has left a small void in my life, but it has also reminded me of the importance of home, in all its forms. The home my dad built, the love he gave, and the memories we shared—they will always be a part of me, just as these Icelandic houses will always carry the stories of the people who live within them.
As the sun dips lower in the sky, I took one last shot, capturing the golden light as it bathes a row of colorful houses. At and in this moment, I felt a sense of peace wash over me. I may be far from home, but in a way, I’ve found a piece of it here in Ísafjörður.
My father’s memory is with me, in every photo I take today, in this space and time., in every house I see, and in every moment I cherish.
Houses become homes when love is involved, and love, I’ve come to understand, is the thread that connects us all. Whether we’re in a small town in Iceland or a bustling city in the States, it’s love that turns walls and a roof into a sanctuary, and it’s love that will carry us through even the deepest of losses. Today, through my lens, I’ve begun to mourn my father, but I’ve also begun to say-goodbye, as I always do, with a camera in hand. And for that, I am grateful.
Click
Jack
